


The Old Guard Prison

by ejdominus



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Prison, Andy if a BAMF, Be aware of these tags, Booker is the sad drunk, Catholic Guilt, Copley is just trying to do the best with what he has, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, F/M, Feral Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Hotburn in a way, I will tag when NONCON about to happen for trigger warnings, Its prison, Joe is also not taking crap, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Whump, Keane is the worst, Lapsed Muslim religion, Longing, Look its the US Prison system and it felt disingenuous to not talk about racial gangs, M/M, Mentions of child sex abuse, Murder, Nicky isn't a weak little flower, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Whump, Nile is a BAMF, Not shown though, Not sunshine and rainbows, Plenty of Dubcon, Priests, Quynh is the caring doctor, Race relations in the US Prison sysytem, Racial Talk, Racism, Slowburn for a while, Soft Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Soft Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Though he tries to act hard, Violence, but there will be lots of plot before sex, eventual noncon, eventually there will be sex but first they will angst, everyone is an equal target but neonazis are definitely the villians here, if this makes you uncomfortable don't read, look everyone is a big softie, look its a tough subject and i am not doing it justice but I'm trying, privatized prisons are terrible, religious angst, talk to your local congressman instead of complaining to me, though he also tries to hide it, until Merrick shows up to take the crown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ejdominus/pseuds/ejdominus
Summary: Nicolò diGenova was a man training to be a priest, his life laid out before him, before he killed a man and ended up in Old Guard Prison, sentenced to 80 years, where the prisoners and guards are waiting to tear him apart. This is his punishment and he is not afraid to face it. This is where he expects to live out the rest of his life in penance. What he isn't expecting is Yusuf "Joe" Al-Kaysani, a fellow prisoner in for grand larceny, and the crashing of their two orbits. As Nicky fights to survive and Joe struggles not to feel anything for the former priest-turned convicted killer, they may find solace and purpose in each other. This is how they fall in love, fight to survive, and try to make a life in the worst of conditions.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, maybe Book of Nile if you squint
Comments: 239
Kudos: 250





	1. Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is like my first big foray back into fanfiction in over a decade. But I love Old Guard so much and my discord was so encouraging so here we are. This fic deals with a lot of heavy themes. I'm working to tag properly so no one wanders in here uninformed. The subject matter is heavy and there's gonna be racial talk though I will avoid outright slurs because they make me wince. I was inspired by the show "Oz" so if you've seen it, you'll know. It's not a crossover though because its only Old Guard characters and OCs I created. I know the climate of the fandom is intense so if you feel the need to troll, I will delete it. Please be constructive. I will add a warning in front of each chapter for triggering content such as mentions of child sex abuse, violence, and rape. There will be a lot of drama and longing and hopefully you enjoy your stay here. At the end of the day though this is a love story between Joe and Nicky who are in love in every universe.

“Nicolò?”

A beat, a quiet moment that seemed to stretch on forever, hanging heavy over Nicolò’s head as he waited in the confessional booth.

“Please, answer me.” The voice was so kind, so pleading. Nicolò wanted to answer, but he did not know how.

He gripped the gun tighter in his shaking hands. Peering down at his white fingers, painted red with streaks of blood, wrapped around the cold, titanium gray, he wondered whose blood it was.

 _You know whose it is._ Though one might not think of it as that much, Nicolò knew there was in fact so much, seen and unseen, on his hands. _I am a sinner. God will not forgive me for this. But still....I need…._

  
“Father,” Nicolò said softly, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. There was a chill in the air, and yet sweat glued his dark brown hair to his forehead and neck.

It was so quiet around him, save for the distant noise of the people gathered outside the church. At first, there had been so much noise: the choir singing, the gunshot, the crashing of the sacristy doors when a body fell through, the thundering in his ears as he rained his rage down unto the body, and the screaming as the churchgoers fled, the shouts in english and spanish as they cried out for God to help them, save them.

God was not here today, he thought. He has abandoned me. As he should.

“Nicolò,” replied the voice through the latticed screen. “I am here.”

 _Father Ernesto_ , Nicolò recalled. That was who the voice belonged to. He was a good man. He would hear Nicolò’s confession before it was too late. Perhaps then he could still find a way to see his mother again.

“I n-need to confess,” he replied back, a tremor in his voice. He swallowed hard, steeling himself. He wondered if he could truly confess the truth. God would know he was lying, but he needed to confess. His mother had made him promise.

_“Promise me Nicky,” she had begged. “Promise me to not stray from the Church. Turn from sin, so that I can see you again in the kingdom of heaven. Per favore Nicky.”_

“Nicolò,” came the voice of Father Ernesto again. “The police are waiting outside. I’ve convinced them that you will come peacefully. I need you to put down the gun and surrender.”

The police...yes, they are here. In all the panic and madness of the people fleeing from the bloody scene, Nicolò had forgotten about the sirens, piercing the cold winter night, the flashing blue and red lights through the stained glass windows feeling wrong as Father Ernesto stayed behind to talk him down. As he had pleaded with Nicolò, all he could think was, _They should be red and green, not red and blue. It’s Christmas._

That is how he ended up here. Police came barging in, shouting, and the noise was such a nuisance. How could Nicolò think with all that noise. Father Ernesto had intercepted them as Nicolò ran into the confessional, shutting the door, before barricading it with his body. He did not have a plan. He just needed quiet, and now, he needed to confess.

“I need to confess, Father,” Nicolò repeated. “Will you hear my confession? Please. Please. Por favor, Father.”

Another moment of silent, long and cruel.

“Nicolò, if I hear your confession, will you surrender peacefully?”

Idly running his thumb along the smooth barrel of the gun, Nicolò had to wonder if he could. A part of him wanted to put the gun in his mouth, and another considered rushing out with it raised, and letting God and the police handle the rest.

As if sensing his thoughts, Father Ernesto said to him in an even and calm voice, “I know you are scared. But you are still so young. And suicide is still a mortal sin, Nicolò. You know this. Don’t do that to your family. To your mother. Don’t prevent her from reuniting with you in God’s paradise.”

Nicolò smiled, a crooked one that his mother always loved.

_Well played Father._

“Okay.”

He could hear as Father Ernesto left the confessional for a few minutes, Nicolò guessed to speak with the police officers waiting outside. They were quiet, but Nicolò could hear the static from their radios and the nervous shuffle of their boots, the excited energy building up over whether or not to storm into the confessional and subdue him. They were hungry, they smelled blood in the air, and were teetering on the edge, ready to sink their teeth into him and rip out his throat.

They should.

Whispered voices arguing, one of them Ernesto’s, pleading but firm. All of it muffled, but still, Nicolò could catch a few words here and there, mostly from Ernesto.  
“Please,” was used often. “...I know him...he’s in seminary....to be a priest…he’s young…he’s not a violent man...” Finally, acquiescence.

Father Ernesto stepped back into the confessional, his Christmas robes of white and gold showing through the lattice as he sat back down. He huffed, sounding tired. Nicolò could only imagine. He could feel his own muscles shaking as the adrenaline was wearing down, a roaring headache pounding in his ears.

“Please, my child,” Father Ernesto began. “Begin.”

Nicolò breathed in deep, a shuddering breath that felt like it might suffocate him.

“In the name of the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit. Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” His voice felt suddenly thick, like he might vomit or cry, but he willed himself on. “It has been three days since my last confession. And these are my sins.

“I found out something terrible about a man I thought was good. I did not want to believe it, so I didn’t. And as a result, I sent innocents into harm’s way. Then I found out that it was true, that the man I believed to be good...was a monster. So I confronted him.”

Shouting. Denials. Rage. A gunshot. Pleading.

“It went all wrong. And now…” Bleeding crimson down his ivory white robes, the holy robes of his office, the man had fled, bursting through the doors into the Church and interrupting the service. Nicolò had given chase, grabbing the man as he fell. Rage and sorrow consumed him. He barely remembers the feeling of his fists on the man, much less smashing down the gun into his temple. There was so much urgency. He could not let him get away to do more harm.

“The man is dead. I have killed him. He could have survived perhaps. But I did not want him to. So I killed him. Forgive me, Father….forgive me…”

The tears began then, falling silently down his face. His eyes burned, his vision blurred, and he felt a great and terrible sorrow seize his heart. For a moment he could not and would not breath. He was drowning on dry land in his own tears.

“Nicolò…”Father Ernesto sounded sad and so far away.

“I am going to hell, Father, I know I am,” Nicolò choked out. “I am sorry for all my sins with all my heart. I intend to do penance and sin no more. But if I had the choice to go back in time, I would still kill him. I just would have done it sooner.”

The silence came again, and Nicolò could not expect to receive forgiveness. He lifted the gun and wondered when it had become so heavy. He placed it down on the ledge of the latticed window that separated him and Father Ernesto.

He stood, his legs shaking, and reached for the door handle of the confessional.

“Nicolò,” whispered Father Ernesto’s voice, muffled and stilted. Was he crying also?

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Please, now Nicolò, surrender peacefully.”

“Thank you Father.”

“Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God.”


	2. A Beautiful Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf "Joe" Al-Kaysani's Prisoner #OG1066, life at Old Guard prison is about to get interesting with the arrival of a new inmate, a priest convicted of killing another priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Introduction to prison life so some racial talk and mentions of prison gangs, which are based on real prison divisions from google research but not exact as its fiction and I can only research so far. A casual slur used by a character as a sign of affection although I do not condone it.

Yusuf Al-kaysani, Prisoner number OG1066, better known around cell block C as Joe, peered down at the head bobbing up and down on his cock while taking a drag from his cigarette. He admired how eager Angelo seemed to be, trying his best to get him off with a hand cupping his heavy balls as his mouth worked itself raw on his cock. His other hand chasing his own pleasure Joe assumed. 

As if reading Joe’s thoughts, he looked up with his big doe eyes, tears gathering at the corners as he struggled to fit Joe down his throat. He wasn’t bad looking-- longish hair and boyish features -- but still, Joe hated when they tried to look to him for approval.

“Don’t look at me,” Joe growled, reaching down to grab a fistful of his dark hair and using it to pull Angelo’s mouth up and down at a faster pace. His boredom grew quickly, but still, he wanted to enjoy the last dregs of his cig and get off before heading to breakfast. He hadn’t even been expecting to get a blowjob when he went to one of the often-used blindspots out of sight of the guards’ watch station. But after a few moments of peace, he looked up to see Angelo peering around the corner, palming himself through the front of his pants, eyeing Joe’s growing interest tenting his prison issue sweats like he was an oasis in a desert.

With a nod of his head, Angelo had rushed over, fallen to knees, and made quick work of pulling Joe out of his navy sweats and getting him hard. But when he had gotten his mouth on him, Joe could already tell this might be a mistake. Too much teeth, not enough suction, and a piss poor attempt at actually deepthroating him. But when in prison, Joe mused, one couldn’t be picky. So Joe enjoyed the last of his early morning smoke as he pushed Angelo's face down to spill his release, burying his nose in the thick, black patch of hair between his legs, gagging him and engulfing him in his scent. 

“Try less teeth next time,” Joe said as he tucked his softening cock back into sweats. He snuffed out his cigarette, pocketing it to dispose of later, watching Angelo cough as he tried to recover his breath and swallow down the rest of Joe’s cum.

Joe made his way out onto the floor, nodding his head in greeting to the other inmates as they left their cells. A few grinning as they watched Angelo slink out from behind him, flushed and teary eyed.

Joe was an anomaly here, an outsider as one of only a few novel minorities at Old Guard Prison (his family hailed from Tunisia but most just called him an arab uninspiringly) but seemingly on friendly terms with just about every gang. The Muslims, the only group not defined by race, of course accepted him and always welcomed him to pray with them, but having been a lapsed muslim long before he ended up here, he always politely declined. 

Asif always smiled in response, wagging a finger at him, declaring, “Someday, Yusuf, you will find your way back to God, and it shall be me that shepherds the way.”

 _Yaz would be happy_ , Joe thought to himself. _Though probably mad it wasn’t her in the end that made me see the light. But still, she would be happy. I wonder how she’s doing these days_. With the scent of the cigarette clinging to his rough, black beard and the feeling of Angelo’s clumsy mouth on his dick, he tried not to think of his little sister or his faith.

But still, he always made sure to fire off an “As-salamu alaykum” to any of the glaring skin-heads of the Aryan Brotherhood who were always nearby to scoff, throw out a slur or two, and dance around with a towel around their heads as the muslims prayed. Joe couldn’t help but grin cockily, flashing his silver incisor at them when he would pass by, spouting off Arabic phrases just to rile them up. In truth, they were perhaps the one gang that loathed Joe the most but would not dare touch him. 

Between his reputation for fights and his connections on the outside, Joe was a man of enviable skill, access, and strength.

“Ey, Joe, why you gotta be bustin’ their balls, man?” asked a short, stocky man with a spider tattooed under his left eye. He had a thick accent but didn’t struggle with english. He was Mexican, the son of immigrants, but born here in the states like Joe.

“C’mon Toto,” Joe replied, falling in line and walking alongside the man who despite the gentle scolding, still patted Joe on the back in greeting. “Just ‘cause you have a truce with those racist fucks doesn’t mean I have to respect their bullshit.”

“ _Órale_ Joe! Sometimes you gotta make a deal with one devil to fight another, you get me.” Toto ran a hand through his slicked back hair, wet and shiny with what Joe could only guess. He scratched at the underside of his chin where patches of wirey hair grew but were nothing in comparison to Joe’s full, thick beard.

“Is that some kind of _cholo_ proverb?” Joe teased back.

“Yeah, something like that, _pendejo_ . But seriously man, try to cool it with them, okay? Half the time I’m worrying about the _Norteños_ and the blacks, and I need those skinheads to boost our numbers.”

“Like I tell you every time, Toto, I don’t know why you’re all working against each other. Those skinheads aren’t ever gonna accept you and will cut your throat the first chance they get. They are terrified of the idea of the latino and the black gangs uniting. Throw in the Asians, and it’d be over for them, the Italians, and the Russians. Got to think big picture.”

“Ah, you and your racial harmony nonsense. You belong to no gang, so I don’t expect you to grasp the politics.”

“You’re right, I belong to no tribe here, so I’m bound to no one’s rules. Therefore, I can mess with those nazi fucks as much as I want. They know better than to start something with me.”

Toto laughed, shaking his head at Joe. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. You just taking advantage of my fondness for your camel jockey ass.” Joe side-eyed the man, knowing he threw in a slur or two just to hide just how much he owed Joe. Between the contraband Joe was able to smuggle in and the couple of times Joe’s quick reflexes had saved the man from attempts on his life, Frankie "Toto" Rodriguez, Prisoner Number OG1215, might actually consider Joe a friend.

“But try not to piss ‘em off so much. Can’t tell you how many times I got one of those _gringo_ fucks coming up to me to ask permission to shank your brown ass.”

“Aw, Toto, you watchin’ my ass.” Joe winked down at the man, who was a good several inches shorter than him. 

“Pfft, fuck off, man. I ain’t one of your punks waiting their turn to suck your dick.”

“Jealous, Toto?” Joe replied, slipping a hand into Toto’s jacket pocket, depositing a friendly gift of several choice cigarettes. “You know I’ll make room in my schedule for you. But right now, I got some other _deliveries_ to make.”

“Always the entrepreneur. You gonna come watch after mealtime?” Toto asked as Joe turned to begin his rounds to other gangs.

“Watch?” Joe stopped in his tracks.

“Yeah, we got a new batch of fish coming in today to the OG. Everyone wants a peek at ‘em. Lotta guys eager to see who they might want to claim.” 

_Ah, orientation day_ , Joe recalled. He had lived through so many already at this point in his sentence. The men inside were always chomping at the bit to get at the _fresh meat_ , to see who might have connections on the outside, who might have a new and useful skill, and who would fall into which gang and boost their numbers. And as always, to see what pretty ones might be amongst them to warm their lonely nights. _Probably going to get myself a new cellmate._

“As long as none of them comes in and tries to act the tough guy by starting shit with me, I could care less who ends up in this god forsaken place.”

Toto shrugged. “Lucky you. Meanwhile, I got to sort through the spics to see who are true _chicanos_ and who are _norteños._ ” Toto scoffed, making a face like he just tasted something truly repulsive. “Those _nortenos_ always think they’re better than us.”

“Got to tell you, Toto, every person always thinks they're better than someone. Especially those nazi fucks.” Joe chuckled at Toto’s disapproving look. “Got any intel on the newbies?”

“Got nothing ‘cept couple of my boys were picked for the welcome party,” Toto said as his eye caught on a figure up ahead. Joe turned his head to follow Toto’s sightline to spot one of Old Guard’s usual correctional officers on duty that day. A filled out man, a little taller than Joe though not by much, with blond hair and bloodshot blue eyes. “Maybe your buddy over there can tell you more.”

 _C.O. Le Livre. A.k.a. “Booker.”_ Joe took the cue and made his way over to who was perhaps his least hated correctional officer in this place. Joe could already tell by his slouched figure and listless waving of the inmates to the mess hall that he was perhaps already a few drinks in today. Joe didn’t know why, but he always felt for the man. Maybe it was because Booker didn’t dole out beatings and punishments to the inmates on a whim. Perhaps, Joe might also consider Booker a friend, if he was in the habit of having friends here.

“Hey Joe,” Booker’s raspy voice managed to get out before coughing roughly. Perhaps a more handsome man when he was sober, Booker’s five o’clock shadow and dark bags were all Joe could notice today. 

“Hey Book,” Joe replied, leaning against the wall next to him with his arms crossed. “You look like shit.”

“Good morning to your ugly ass, too,” Booker replied with a half smile.

“Seriously Book, you gotta get some sleep or get laid.”

“You offering?” Booker laughed then, always seeming to enjoy Joe’s company. “Hey! Knock it off!” he shouted at two inmates who had started a shoving match. Just as quickly, they separated at Booker’s command but glared at each other the rest of the way. “Love to get laid, but how can I when I’m always corralling these animals?”

“Hey, I finished _Count of Monte Cristo_ ,” Joe said, eyeing the inmates as they passed. Some shot him a disgusted look when speaking with Booker, as most were opposed to any kind of fraternizing with the C.O.’s, but Joe just stared them down, daring them to make a move. “Pretty good shit. Surprised you’d recommend a book about a daring prison escape to an inmate, but still, really good.”

Booker chuckled. “Yeah, well, I don’t see how you’re going to learn any applicable tips from _that_ escape. But, see, I told you.” Booker looked at him, smiling. “Dumas is great. Told you I’d make you regret skipping fine literature in school.”

There were many reasons Joe regretted the days of his reckless youth. He spent most of it driving his poor mother up a wall--skipping class to go hang out on the streets, getting into brawls, experimenting with drugs, stealing from local convenience stores, and trying to lose his virginity at the first opportunity. But he had to admit, discovering the stories he would have read in school might have to be added to the list.

“ _Count_ is one of the best. Up there with _Don Quixote_.”

“ _Don Quixote_? Isn’t that the weird one with an old man fighting windmills?”

“Yeah! Wait, have you read it?”

“Started to in high school but kinda lost interest.” Joe’s interest then started to veer towards the pretty girls and pretty boys in his class. So books became a lot less interesting with the sudden surge of hormones.

“Lost interest? I’m gonna throw you in _seg_ for that,” Booker joked, choking out another laugh at Joe. Joe definitely smelled the alcohol Booker had snuck in before his shift then. “Look, I know the library’s got it. You get your ass there first chance you get, pick up a copy, and read one of the greatest novels ever written.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll clear my schedule for it,” Joe quipped back. Not much to do in the interim between meals, recreational time, and the occasional blow job. “But hey, I hear we got fish coming in today. Got any idea what we’re looking at?”

Booker eyed Joe with some disappointment. Joe didn’t care about being sly about his intention of pumping Booker for information. Maybe Booker considered Joe a friend, maybe he didn’t. Joe didn’t keep friends. He valued information, so Joe liked to be kept abreast of how prison politics and dynamics would be affected by new inmates.

“C’mon Book, just wanna know if we got any troublemakers comin’ in who might have to be chin checked.” He held up his hands innocently. “Not by me of course.”

“Right,” Booker sighed, shaking his head. “Just your usual mix. Druggies, a few grand larceny like you, a couple of violent assaults, and of course a few illegals who are getting shuffled here because the government doesn’t know what to do with ‘em.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “One interesting one though…” Booker dropped his voice lower, forcing Joe to lean in a little closer to catch his scratchy voice. “A hot one.”

“Murder?” Joe’s eyebrows raised high at that. O.G. was a maximum security prison so it housed all types, and murderers among them wasn’t new. But still, everyone always had to be on their guard when it came to someone with a murder charge. 

“Yup. And get this...he’s a priest. And he killed _another_ priest.”

Joe scoffed, half laughing at the idea. “Wait, you serious?” Booker nodded solemnly. “Wait, was this that trial they made a big deal about on the news?” Joe had only half paid attention to the coverage, finding he preferred mindless television shows rather than the news. But still, it had been a big enough story that Joe was not unaware of it.

“Yup. Judge threw the book at ‘im and sent him here.”

“Fuck.” Joe leaned his head back against the wall, letting it _thunk_ while he wondered what having a priest as an inmate would be like. “Wait, he’s not....a chomo is he?”

“A pedo? No idea. Why? You just assume all priests are child molesters?”

“I mean, aren’t they?”

“KAYSANI!” The shout interrupted Booker and Joe’s private conversation. Booker straightened up at the voice and took a step back from Joe, lest their proximity convey some kind of friendship instead of the strict C.O. and inmate power imbalance. Joe kept his relaxed position against the wall, only lifting his head up to see who was purposely messing up his name. 

Joe grit his teeth at the sight of the man. For if Booker was his least hated C.O., then C.O. Keane was definitely his most hated.

“Eat a few more breath mints, Book,” Joe mumbled under his breath as he pushed off the wall to approach Keane. 

“It’s _Al_ -Kaysani,” Joe corrected as he approached the brick house of man. Standing a couple of inches taller than Joe, Keane acted more like it was a couple feet. And maybe he could get away with that bravado, his arms and torso thick with hard muscle that made him a force to be reckoned with. But Joe never backed down, no matter how many times Keane found an excuse to beat him or send him to solitary. To others, he did worse. If given the chance to take Keane on outside these prison walls, Joe knew he’d make sure the man regretted every unfair beating and abuse of his power as Head of Security.

“Shut up, Kaysani,” Keane barked back. The other inmates warily gave Joe and C.O. Keane a wide berth in case a brawl was about to start. Though Joe would love to lay a few good hits on Keane, Joe was never one to start the fights. Only finish them.

“What can I do for you, C.O. Keane?” Joe asked, grinning wide to let all his white teeth and silver incisor gleam on display. He crossed his hands behind his back, making sure not to draw attention like some nervous inmates did by touching the contraband hidden in their pockets. 

Keane eyed him, as if debating initiating a search. His cold, dark eyes and well groomed face always seemed ready to find a reason to beat down an inmate. Instead, he answered, “Copley wants to see you. Up in his office.”

“Now? It’s breakfast. A man’s gotta eat.”

Keane’s frowned deepened. “Eat first. Then Copley.”

“What’s he want to see me for?”

“Do I look like a goddamn errand boy?” Joe eyed him up and down, taking note of his pressed shirt and spotless uniform. In comparison to Booker’s daily appearance, Keane was the epitome of well groomed and dressed for the job.

“I don’t think you really want me to answer that,” Joe shot back.

“Eat your damn meal, then see Copley,” Keane muttered, his eyes wandering from Joe to the other inmates, searching for an excuse to assert his power since Joe was only going to trade barbs with him. It was too early for him to start handing out beatings over words. 

“Hey! You!” he shouted, stepping past Joe to go harass someone else.

“Okay _errand boy_ ,” Joe huffed out to himself as he took off to go see what wonders the Old Guard Prison system had seemed acceptable enough to be called food. “Guess I’ll make my deliveries later.”

James Copley was a man who was definitely too idealistic to be working at Old Guard, but fate and circumstance doomed him to it nonetheless. He was well-dressed, wearing a tailored tan suit that complimented his deep brown skin, clean shaved face, and well coiffed fade. Joe often wondered what had led him here, especially whenever he sat in his office waiting for the man to take his seat and start talking. As if for some needed ritual, Copley always spent the first minute of Joe’s arrival getting up to retrieve and study his file -- he wasn’t the warden but as the one overseeing day-to-day operations of most blocks, including Joe’s, while the actual spoiled-by-daddy warden wasted his time doing anything but, he kept detailed files and records on each inmate under his care.

“How are you today, Yusuf?” Copley finally said in his British lilt, breaking the silence as he laid Joe’s thick file open on his desk. He peered up from it, offering Joe one of his usual warm smiles. With the Harvard degree in psychology against the wall behind his head, Joe wondered if those half genuine, half condescending smiles was something they taught at ivy league schools.

“You know Copley, I don’t think you’ve ever told me how a fancy englishman like you ended up working at a run-down _American_ prison,” Joe countered back, leaning back in one of Copley's office chairs, linking his hands behind his head. 

Copley chuckled, taking off his reading glasses to lay them next to the file. “In the six years of us knowing each other, Yusuf, you’ve never asked. But, well, I was born in Boston, moved to London when I was four and then came back to Boston for college and then moved to the sunshine state for my wife. Now, if we’re done with that, I’d like to--”

“Who willingly goes back to _Boston_?”

“Yusuf,” Copley huffed out, a little exasperated. Joe smiled to himself, he always enjoyed riling up anyone he could. Though Copley had always been fairly decent to him, making sure to pronounce his name correctly and usually giving half a shit when the prisoners complained about too much abuse from the more over-zealous C.O.’s. Joe knew that if he could, he’d probably do more, but in the end, he wasn’t the warden and would never be, so as long as the warden shared a last name with the parent company that owned Old Guard prison, Merrick Trust.

“Sorry, sorry!” Joe leaned forward, holding up his hands in surrender before resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m at your disposal, Copley. Or am I in trouble? Never really sure what I’m being called into the principal’s office for.”

“Should I be scolding you for something?” Copley cocked an eyebrow at him. “If I searched you right now, how much contraband would I find on you this early?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Joe lied, staring the man dead in the eyes. His voice did not falter, his face didn’t twitch, and not a line of his body fell out of place when delivering the lie. Joe knew Copley knew better, but clearly the man had something else on his mind.

“Right, well, I called you to see you for two matters. First off, you’re getting a new cellmate. I know you’ve been enjoying your single room for a little while now since Michaels was paroled, but this isn’t a hotel after all.”

Joe had been enjoying the luxury of a cell to himself , especially since Michaels had been quite the snorer and had intestinal issues that often made Joe want to retch most days. But he had kept to himself which Joe appreciated above all. He could only hope for the same quality in his new _r_ _oommate_.

“I figured as much when I heard we got new fish comin’ in. But you don’t usually call me in for a meeting to tell me that.” Having been here six years already, Joe had already had three cellmates, and each time he only discovered he was getting a new one when they were standing nervously in the doorway to his cell, either looking like lost sheep or ready to start a fight over who got top bunk. 

“And that brings me to the second matter -- you’re on chaperone duty today for your new cellmate.”

“What?” Joe’s cool broke then, sitting up straighter to glare at Copley. “You’ve never put me on that detail before. Why?” Joe was suspicious naturally. 

“Well, as you may or may not have heard -- although considering the gossip that runs rampant among this prison like you’re all high school girls, I’m sure you have -- we have a new inmate coming in that I’m a bit concerned about for a number of reasons. And that inmate is going to be your new cellmate, so I thought it best you be the one to show him what’s what here and get him settled in.”

“You’re stickin’ me with the _priest_?” Joe worried his voice might have cracked on that last word, his incredulousness at the situation overwhelming.

“Ah, so you have heard. _Chisme_ is what the latinos call it, right? Anyways, yes, the priest. He’s a bit of celebrity with the news coverage surrounding his trial. I thought it best to try to keep him housed away from the gangs or with any of the latinos -- the man he killed was a well-beloved _mexican_ priest in a little community in Boyle Heights. Can’t have any attempts at revenge.”

“So you expect me to protect him?” Joe leaned back now, crossing his arms as a show of strength to highlight his well toned arms stretching his white t-shirt tight. “You’re crazy if you think I’m risking my time and energy on that. Besides, if he’s a chomo, ain’t no one going to be able to protect him.”

Copley sighed, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. “He was convicted for murder, not child molestation. I will not have that rumor spreading. I will not have another inmate being killed on my watch, do you understand me?” Copley pounded a fist on his desk, causing his reading glasses to jump. Joe forgot that beneath Copley’s kind exterior, he could be hard as well. He had to be in order to survive here.

“Look, Yusuf, I’m just asking you to look after the kid all right? He’s young, twenty-four, and been in the seminary for the past few years. Coming here is going to be quite the adjustment….and I can’t count on any of the gangs to reign themselves in. But everyone here respects you, a lot fear you, so if they think messing with him means messing with you, then maybe he’ll get by.”

Joe chewed on the inside of his mouth, considering Copley’s words but also wondering why Copley should have such a sudden interest in this man.

“You religious Copley?”

“What?”

“I’m asking if you’re religious. Because otherwise I can’t understand why you’re so concerned about this one guy. Lots of innocent kids get thrown in here -- black kids being over-sentenced over a small amount of drugs or latinos just trying to find refuge from the murderers in their countries -- but suddenly you’re concerned about this one guy? Why? Because he’s a priest? Because he’s white?” Joe didn’t know for sure he was, but it was probably a safe bet.

Copley leaned back in his office chair, regarding Joe carefully, pursing his lips in thought. He drummed his fingers against his desk for a few moments while he chose his next words.

“Want me to be frank, Yusuf? Okay. I want you to do this because Andy asked me to.”

“Andy?” Andrea O. Synthia, crusading lawyer for the poor and downtrodden at Legal Aid, and all around five-foot-ten warrior goddess of the Los Angeles court system. Also, Joe’s lawyer at his own trial. She’d fought a good fight, but Joe was definitely guilty of his crimes so he couldn’t blame her for not getting him off, though he had ended up with a twenty-five year sentence with parole in eight years instead of the forty-to-fifty he had expected as a brown, muslim man.

“Yes. She called this morning. Also said you haven’t come out to see her the last couple of times she’s come to visit, otherwise I’m sure she would’ve pleaded her case to you directly. So maybe next time see the damn woman when she comes calling for you. Maybe show a little appreciation that someone still cares about you on the outside, especially when that someone is your damn lawyer.”

 _Now this is getting slightly more interesting if Andy’s involved,_ Joe had to admit.

“All right,” Joe ground out calmly. 

“All right what?” 

“All right, I’ll take her visit next time. Find out why she cares so much about this priest.”

“And the kid? You’re going to watch after him?”

“I’ll be...his chaperone, and I’ll make sure he’s not murdered in our cell. Because my home is my haven. But other than that, he’s of no importance or consequence to me.”

Copley sighed, shaking his head with a weary smile. “Fine, Yusuf. Just...talk to Andy. That woman is a beast on the phone, so I’d like to avoid her wrath in person.”

Joe chucked. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Copley looked down at his wrist watch to check the time, peering up to compare to the time on the office-issued clock that hung on the wall. “Always behind, the piece of junk,” he muttered. “New inmates should be arriving now. They’ll be processed for probably about another hour or so. Be at the gate to meet him at a quarter to eleven. You can give him the grand tour and make sure he gets to the mess hall for lunchtime. Think you can handle that, Yusuf?”

“Sure, captain, no problem,” Joe said as he stood up to offer a sarcastic salute. “Maybe we’ll become best friends and braid each other’s hair.”

“Get out of my office Yusuf.”


	3. The Welcome Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò diGenova enters Old Guard Prison and meets Joe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A cavity search that has some dubcon undertones to it.
> 
> Also I did a bit of research for this and also am going by the show Oz for how people are processed in prison. This isn't an expose on prison life so I'm playing fast and loose with prison reality on rules and procedures a bit. I'm here for the drama, less for the realism, hope that doesn't distract people. If you have info though about prison you'd like me to be aware of, please let me know, I do enjoy learning.  
> Also, Black Guerillas is a real prison gang, I did not name them that. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Nicolò couldn’t stop the tremor in his hands and legs as he entered the ominous concrete building, identified by its dusty and faded sign as _Old Guard Prison_. It didn’t help that he had to shuffle in with his oversized bright orange jumpsuit, his hands and legs in shackles linked together. Compared to some of the other inmates he was in line with, he seemed the least in need of being chained.

 _But you are a murderer_ , he reminded himself. _This is what you deserve._

In truth, he had barely been aware of himself until now. Not since the haze of the trial. Between arrest, arraignment, and finally his sentencing, time had lost meaning to him. He pleaded guilty, making no attempt to defend himself to the chagrin of his lawyer who seemed sympathetic to his circumstance. He didn’t understand why the lawyer couldn’t see him for the sinner he was. But Nicolò suspected Father Ernesto of helping to secure him some kind of defense. 

_He is a good man. Father Perez….was not_ , Nicolò thought with a grimace. He didn’t want to think of the man. It brought back his shame and the memory of his horror stricken face as blood stained his robe, as Nicolò chased him down, striking him over and over again…

“NEXT!” The shout drew him out of his thoughts. He entered a new room as he watched the man who had entered before him being led out, shackles gone and now dressed in standard navy blue prison scrubs and sweats. 

A guard came up, undoing his shackles in silence. When he was done, he shoved him forward towards a cold, grey wall and ordered him to strip.

“What?” Nicolò asked in a daze.

“Did I fucking stutter, inmate?” the guard spat back, already in a foul mood it seemed. “I said strip.”

“Why?” 

Apparently, that question was one too many. The guard removed his baton from his belt and began to step forward. Nicolò braced himself and tried to back away, but his back soon hit the wall behind him, trapping him.

“Meyers!” shouted another guard that entered, stopping Nicolò’s would-be attacker in his tracks. “Take ten. I’ll take over.”

The guard called Meyers narrowed his eyes at Nicolò, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted. But his hesitation was short, putting his baton back in its holster as he turned to the tall, well-groomed guard that had saved Nicolò. 

“Thanks Keane,” he said, smiling. “I need a smoke anyway.” He walked past Keane with a pat on his shoulder before closing the door behind him, leaving Nicolò all alone with this new guard.

“Sorry about that,” Keane began with a soft smile. He was handsome and appeared friendly, putting Nicolò a little more at ease. “Lots of inmates are always ready to jump my guys, so they tend to be on their guard.”

“Oh,” Nicolò whispered back, feeling a slight tremor still in his hands. 

“But, I will need you to undress.” His voice was soothing, almost kind, but Keane eyed Nicolò up and down, his eyes lingering a little longer than Nicolò cared for. “Your new prison issued clothes are on the bench there. You’ll be changing into those.”

Nicolò looked between the man Keane and the grey and navy colored pile of clothes next to him. They had bundles lined up, ready for the inmates being processed. Swallowing, Nicolò peered back over at the man Keane, remembering privacy was not an option here.

He pushed himself off the wall and began undoing the buttons on his orange jumpsuit. Pulling it off, he tried not to look up at Keane, knowing that the man was watching every move he made. It was his job, Nicolò knew, but something about his gaze clung to him. He felt it on his skin as the jumpsuit came off, leaving him in his white briefs and undershirt. 

Grabbing the hem of his undershirt, his eyes flicked up to see Keane’s. It was small and nearly imperceptible, but Nicolò could see it -- the small grin that tickled the corner of the man’s mouth. Ducking his head back down, Nicolò pulled the undershirt off as quick as he could, before pulling down his briefs, leaving himself bare and naked under this man’s predatory gaze. But he made no move to hide himself, a part of him suspecting the man would like that more.

Nicolò reached for the bundle of new clothes, but Keane’s voice stopped him.

“Hold up. Come here,” he commanded, his voice dropping all pretense of the kind savior he had pretended to be before. 

Obediently, Nicolò walked forward, eyes still cast down until he was within arms length of the man. He heard him snapping a glove on before a hand gently touched his chin, lifting Nicolò to meet his gaze.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered. Nicolò could feel his stare piercing his body, all the way down his spine to his toes. He was acutely aware of his sex dangling bare and vulnerable between his legs. 

Breathing shakily, Nicolò opened his mouth wide, remembering the procedure from his first visit to prison during his trial. Typical cavity search, and yet this felt different from the disinterested county prison guard with cold fingers who had performed it the first time.

In contrast to the gentle hold on his chin, two large fingers roughly prodded into his mouth. Tasting the rubbery texture of the gloves, Keane pushed down on his tongue before moving it around to check underneath. 

“You’d be surprised,” Keane said casually, “how many guys manage to hide razor blades in their mouths.” The fingers pressed against his inner cheeks, sliding up and down, before reaching deeply back towards this throat. Nicky caught his breath, afraid he would retch. “You’ve got a wide mouth.” 

Nicolò wanted to retch then, the feeling of his thick fingers in his mouth growing increasingly violating, before just as quickly he had withdrawn them, snapping the gloves off and tossing them in the trash.

Nicolò only had a moment to be grateful that it was over.

“Turn around,” came his deep voice, a hunger there Nicolò did not like. 

Nicolò steeled himself, swallowing hard and daring to return a hardened look to the man’s eyes as he straightened up to try to match his height. He was still a few inches shorter, but Nicolò was broad shouldered despite his thin frame and soft belly. He stared at him with his grey-blue eyes, determined to not look as frail as he felt. 

Keane let the grin break at the corner of his mouth, apparently amused by Nicolò’s attempt at strength. Nicolò knew he couldn’t back down or blink, but the hint of glee behind Keane’s eyes promised something dark and foreboding.

“I said, turn around,” Keane repeated, bringing his bulky frame even closer to Nicolò’s. Though space still separated them, Nicolò could almost feel the man pressing against his stomach and his soft cock hanging between his legs. As Nicolò turned, the feeling now ghosted over his back and the swell of his ass. 

A few moments of silence passed, Keane relishing the sight. 

“Put your hands against the wall,” was his next order as he moved around behind Nicolò. “And spread your legs apart.”

With a deep breath to calm his growing anxiety, Nicolo pressed his hands against the rough, cold surface of the wall. He spread his feet shoulder length apart and waited. He jumped when he heard the snap of a medical glove being put on.

“Spread them more,” the voice behind him commanded. Exhaling a shaky breath, Nicolò inched his feet farther apart, feeling himself lean forward against his hands to keep his balance, pushing his ass out more. 

“Good boy,” Keane praised and Nicolò grit his teeth. He wanted to whirl around and shove the man away, but before he could process another thought, a rough hand grabbed a handful of his left buttock, spreading him open, a thick finger brutally shoved into him. His breath caught, his head dropping down in shame. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt the finger worm its way inside him, probing and twisting. The intrusion was ungentle and seemed to last forever. Finally, he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, but when he let it go, he heard himself emit a low, pitiful whine.

In response, a low hum of approval sounded behind him.

“You’re clean,” Keane said as he ripped his finger away just as cruelly as he had shoved it in. Nicolò felt his breath stutter again, almost collapsing against the wall. Now the tremor had spread to his shoulders. 

He stayed against the wall for a moment, not ready to turn around and see the satisfied look Keane surely wore on his face.

“Now get dressed. Oh, and welcome to Old Guard.”

“Wait for your name to be called,” C.O. Patricks announced in a louder than necessary voice. “When it is called, step forward and follow C.O. Hyun to meet your charge. Any funny business, and you will have a stay in seg.”

Joe leaned against the wall, bored already, arms crossed, with no intention of any funny business. He was in no way looking forward to having to show his new priest cellmate around, but the sooner it was done, the sooner he could get back to his deliveries for the day and hopefully a trip to the library to pick up a copy of _Don Quixote_.

 _Booker will never shut up about it until I read the damn thing_ , he reasoned to himself.

“Fucking finally,” he spat out when his named was called to go meet his responsibility for the day.

“Language inmate,” C.O. Hyun snapped, before shoving him along where the new inmates waited to be escorted in. They were a sorry looking bunch, mostly scared looks and nervous shuffling with just a couple of them looking ready to start a fight. A couple of new inmates with swastika tattoos, wirey reddish blond beards hiding most of their pockmarked, pale skinned faces, glared at him as he walked past. 

_Oh, yeah, gonna have to teach those shit stains in the yard to mind their manners_ , Joe thought to himself. He flashed his silver incisor at them, looking forward to it.

“Nicolò diGenova!” C.O. Hyun called out, drawing the attention of a slight, slouched figure resting on a bench behind the glaring men. He shot up quickly, but his movements as he headed up to Joe betrayed his fear and hesitation. He kept his shoulders hunched up, his eyes cast down, trying almost to hide behind the standard-prison-issued bundle of bedding and toiletries. 

Joe sized him up, assessing the impressive width of shoulders but the smallish ratio of everything else. Of course, in the baggy Old Guard Prison scrubs and sweats that he seemed to be swimming in, it was hard to tell how much muscle he carried in his arms and thighs. Not that Joe expected a twenty-something priest to have spent a lot of time working out. 

“This is your chaperone,” C.O. Hyun announced to the shrinking man, not caring whether or not he looked up to acknowledge him. “Yoosoof Al-Kah-seni. He’ll show you around and to your cell assignment.”

Joe sighed. “Six years Hyun, you know that’s not how to say my name--”

“Whatever,” he said, turning from them to go shout “Next one!” to the other guard.

Joe scoffed in disgust, flicking the man off as he walked away. “Bitch ass fucker knows my goddamn name.” Shoving his hands in his pocket, he turned his head back to his charge who only now seemed ready to peer up at him.

The sight of his eyes struck Joe, making his mind go blank for a minute as he just absorbed the sharp color. Like green and blue sea glass, they were wide and beautiful, set in deep, hooded eyes with a soft fan of lashes. He was so lost in them for a minute, he didn’t even have time to take in the rest of his alluring face, sharp cheekbones and perfect, pink lips, a distinctive beauty mark to the left beside them. Framing it to perfection was the soft, dark brown hair that fell around his eyes, despite being cut short around his neck.

“I, um…” Joe swallowed, finding it difficult to find the words. Now was a bad time to remember just how bisexual he was.

 _He’s a goddamn priest_ , Joe’s brain tried to remind him and divert blood flow back up to his brain. _And probably a pedo._ _God, he’s going to get devoured in here._ Joe coughed hard, squaring up his shoulders and standing up a little taller to look down at him. 

“Just call me, Joe,” he ground out, trying to ignore what may have been the too-long time that he had spent staring at the man.

“I, um,” the jewel-eyed man said softly, licking his lower lip so that now it sinfully shined back at Joe. “I’m Nicolò.”

 _He shouldn’t do that in here…._ Joe mused. 

“Nicolò? Italian, right?” The man nodded. “You ever go by Nick?”

The man shook his head. “In...seminary, they used to call me Nicky.”

 _Nicky_ , Joe repeated in his head. _Nicky with the soft, pink lips and big, expressive eyes._ He could feel his interest start to crawl lower again towards his stomach and below. _Fuck, this kid is going to get jumped within minutes._ Joe wondered if they would make it through the main floor to their cell before he was accosted. 

“All right, _Nicky_ , let’s go.” Joe turned on his heel and started heading away, not waiting for Nicky to follow. He just knew he couldn’t look into those eyes any longer without growing hard in his sweats. Apparently cumming once today was not enough to quell what those eyes and lips were doing to him right now.

He knew he was following though when he heard the scrape of his prison sneakers against the concrete floor jog to catch up. 

“All right, listen up Nicky ‘cause I’m not repeating myself. But first, let me ask although I suspect I already know the answer to this -- have you ever been to prison before?”

Nicky coughed, before answering, “Um, no. I mean, I was in county during my trial, but--”

“Yeah, this is a whole different playground. We get three meals a day, standard times, don’t be late, there’s no after hours kitchen access. Rec time in the afternoon -- I recommend making use of it because staring at these fucking walls all day will make your mind go insane and the sunshine is a nice luxury. There’s commissary hours for extra supplies if you have the money. If not, I’m sure Copley will set you up with a job. You met Copley yet?”

“Um, I’m not sure. There were different guards and a blond woman -- medical doctor -- but her name was Kozak--”

“He’s like the warden but not the warden. He assigns jobs. Pay is shit but you take what you can get. You educated?”

“Um, yes, I attended a Jesuit college in the area. I am-- I mean, I was going to graduate school to be a professor of theological studies.”

“Well, I’m sure Copley’ll have something for an academic guy like you. Most guys here haven’t finished high school, if they had above a sixth grade education at all. Oh, showers are over there--” Joe stopped to point at a long hallway brick that led to a tiled area, beyond which said showers were located. 

Nicky watched with wide eyes as a pair of heavily tattooed latinos passed by wearing nothing but towels around their waist. They eyed Nicky back coldly.

“Toilets in the cells so don’t expect any kind of privacy here.”

Nicky swallowed hard, remembering the feeling of C.O. Keane’s finger spearing him.

“Infirmary is upstairs but is by appointment only, or if, you know, you get your head split open.” Joe was tempted to look back to Nicky to see how he was handling this influx of information, but his damn dick wasn’t calm enough yet. “C.O.’s are generally everywhere so try not to draw their attention because they will beat you for any reason. Though there are a few blind spots where you can grab some alone time for some _fun_ activities if you want.” 

Joe couldn’t help but look behind him at Nicky, waggling his eyebrows playfully. A blush seemed to bloom underneath his pale skin, forcing Joe to look away just as quickly. A flash of this morning’s cigarette and blow job flashed through Joe’s mind, but he shook it away before he had time to imagine his new cellmates on his knees instead of Angelo.

He cleared his throat, returning to a serious voice. “Of course, it’s also where you can get jumped easily so weigh your odds. Now, we’re about to go out to the _fishbowl._ ”

“Fishbowl?” Nicky asked. His voice was less whispered now, having a deeper edge to it than Joe expected. A slight accent tinged his words, and it interested parts of Joe as well. 

“It’s what we call the main floor where the cells are and recreational tables are. For playing cards or watching whatever the guards feel like letting us watch. It’s a bit rounded, the layout. Also no privacy--the guards’ main station monitoring us is there, sitting above us behind their glass walls. So, like a fishbowl.” 

Joe stopped, feeling Nicky nearly bump into him. 

“Look, Nicky...I get that this is going to be quite a transition from your life before...You were a priest, yeah?”

“Yes,” Nicky whispered, his voice retreating again. In the corner of his eye, Joe could see the tremor in his hands as he clutched his bundle. 

“Well, not that I have experience with what that entails, but I’m sure this is not going to be very similar. When we go out on that floor, every guy in there is going to size you up, decide if they’re gonna try to recruit you or jump you. They’ll holler, they’ll whistle, anything to get you to show them your fear. Don’t look them in the eye unless they get in your face. In that case, you stare them right back, betray nothing, and if they jump you, you fight back. Don’t care whether or not you can fight, you just got to show them you’re not going down easy. Otherwise, you’ll be marked as a punk and everyone will be on you. You understand me?”

Nicky stayed silent, drawing Joe to look over his shoulder at him. He could see the fear but also a steeled determination. What he couldn’t see was the shameful memory that replayed in Nicky’s mind of Keane letting out a satisfied hum behind him.

“Nicky?”

“I understand, Joe,” Nicky replied in his full voice. Joe regarded him for a moment, stealing a moment or two to trace the line of his strong, roman nose to the inviting dip of his lips. He wondered how he would look sketched in one of his notebooks. 

His eyes shined, with unshed tears or grit and determination, Joe couldn’t say.

“For right now, you should be good. We’re just going to our cell so you can make your bed and get settled. Then lunch. The food here is its own kind of punishment.”

“Our cell?” Nicky looked directly into Joe’s face now with what seemed like a small sliver of relief. 

“Yeah, you’ll be sharing one with me. Haven’t had a roommate for a couple of weeks since my last celly got paroled.”

Nicky seemed almost to smile at that, the sight of which was hitting Joe harder than his lost look. It suited him, endearingly crooked and showing off bright, white teeth.

 _It won’t last_ , he thought as they headed out to the fishbowl.

Of course, the other new inmates were also making their way through the main gallery as they found their cell assignments, so the crowd was already worked up, shouting and hollering a plenty. Joe could see Toto’s gang already grouping around their new recruits, though that never stopped the catcalling. The ones not taken in by Toto’s family went to Raul Ruiz, Prisoner OG1994, the leader of the _Nortenos_ Toto was insistent on hating so much. They shouted insults back and forth at each other across the showroom, drawing responding shouts from the C.O.s to quiet down.

Similarly, the other new inmates linked up to their preferred group by their perceived ethnicity -- white to white, black to black, et cetera-- in the typical prison fashion of like for like. Because in here, the only thing most of the men thought they could rely on for trust and shared background was the color of their skin. The rest were the miscellaneous lost souls who found companionship in any groups willing to accept them, while the remaining were left to fend for themselves. Most appeared lost and terrified, drawing more vulgar shouts from the inmates and whistling. Joe sighed, knowing nothing good awaited them if they failed to prove themselves to be someone of consequence.

But Joe’s new charge drew all the inmates attention with a force not even Joe was quite expecting. Nicky’s reputation clearly preceded him, and how the other inmates viewed him varied wildly. It began first with a few hollars and whistling as was usual. Others leaned out of their cells to ogle and stare, one grotesque inmate with missing teeth approaching him from behind to sniff Nicky’s hair. True to Joe’s advice, Nicky shoved the man off with a shoulder after his initial shock. The other inmates laughed in approval, but Nicky’s victory was marred by the man’s own sneer and shout, declaring, “He smells sweet.”

Joe made no move to stop walking towards their cell. After all, Nicky was nothing to him, and no matter what Copley said, he had no intention of risking his neck for this guy. Andy better have a damn good reason if she wanted Joe to give a fuck.

The shouts got more aggressive as they went, a few of the Ruiz’s gang shouting, “ _Órale princessa_ ! Want to suck _mi verga_ with those pretty lips,” and, “I bet you got a sweet pussy between your legs! Come and sit on big _papi’s_ lap!” They shouted and cheered amongst themselves, a few rubbing their crotches exaggeratedly in Nicky’s direction.

The other gangs and stragglers likewise made similar comments, the Black Guerillas making jacking off motions with their hands, shouting “C’mon white boy!” between whistling. The Russians gave cold stares, but a few made kissing faces in Nicky’s direction. The muslims, as always, abstained, only offering warm welcomes to any new faithful that approached them. Besides them, the Aryans were the only ones to refrain from shouting at Nicky, but Joe knew they were less talk and more show, and would be the first ones trying to initiate Nicky into their group, whether as a fellow racist shithead or a plaything for their amusement. Being Italian could inspire them either way.

Peering back at Nicky, Joe found himself impressed by the hard look on that young face. He kept his eyes forward like Joe had advised, but it seemed he had chosen the back of Joe’s head as his singular focus. Thus, Joe was unable to stop himself from peering straight into the deep, grey eyes. Something about those eyes kept making Joe forget himself, and he almost walked right past his cell.

 _Well_ , Joe reminded himself, _our cell._


	4. Making Friends is Hard to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky settles into his new cell with Joe and doesn't play well with others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little mentioning and accusations of child sex abuse by priests. Very minor but be aware if this is a trigger. Little bit of violence and blood. But mostly just Joe and Nicky taking no guff from anyone.

“Home sweet home,” Joe said as he stepped over the threshold, pretending to ignore whether or not Nicky was following. For his part, Nicky grit his teeth and was doing all he could not to shake or falter in his step, knowing that somehow that would be perceived as a weakness, like a wounded animal in a pack left behind. He had heard the whistling and remarks, understanding the english and spanish. He had been thankful for Joe’s advice, otherwise he knew he would have paused at every call and shout and returned every glance and glare. He’d still be out there, glued in place.

Joe turned on his heel to look back at Nicky with a mischievous smile as he stepped further inside. Nicky noticed Joe's smile, a silver glint on one of his teeth catching his attention. The smile was surprisingly warm despite his dark beard and close cropped hair that gave him a look of someone not to be messed with. He had a bottom row of crooked teeth, but with his clear brown eyes and the straight line of his nose, Nicky decided he was rather handsome.

_ No _ , he stopped himself.  _ Don’t think that now. And not here. _

“Let me give you the grand tour,” Joe declared, sweeping his arm out.

Nicky peered around, taking in the whole of the tiny, cramped space in a matter of seconds. The room, he estimated, must be no more than nine feet by twelve feet, with a steel-box double frame bolted against one wall and a long floating desk and shelves on the other. To the back, a brushed metal toilet and sink. Above them, a narrow vertical window that no adult body could fit through even if one managed to break the thick plexiglass embedded into the concrete wall.

“That’s the desk,” Joe said pointing to the long table, one side bare and the other filled with books and papers. “My side, your side. And the shelves above it, my side, your side. That back there is our bathroom -- keep it clean, I can’t stand when that shit reeks. And these are the beds,” he said, stepping forward to pat the top mattress. “I’m top bunk. You’re bottom. Make your bed every morning so the C.O.’s have less reason to give us an ass kicking, got it?”

Nicky stared down at the bottom bunk and the unmade mattress, a thin, worn grey slab that looked to offer little to no comfort. Different from the comfy beds he had growing up but akin to the poor mattresses of the seminary he studied in. He walked over silently, placing down his bundle of prison issued items and began to work as best he could to set up his new “home.”

It was almost familiar in a way, this cold room and bare walls. Not to his childhood, that had been full of warm and tender moments for the most part , but to his time in the seminary when he realized he had to repent if he ever hoped to keep his promise to his mother. So a plain desk and barely any possessions to put on  _ his _ shelf was nothing new, and almost a comfort. Worldly pleasures were not meant for Nicky, they hadn’t been for a while, and never would be again. 

He put his essentials given to him on his shelf -- a toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, a pack of two disposable single bladed razors, and a roll of toilet paper. He peered over to the other side of the desk and shelf, to Joe’s-- his cellmate he supposed was the correct word -- side. There were several books, a Quran amongst them, and a drawing crudely colored with crayons of some misshapen thing that might have been people.

_ Does he have family _ ? Nicky wondered. Not Nicky. He was alone.

Joe moved about the room -- fiddling with his meager possessions on his shelf and then sitting at his desk, thumbing through a book or two in what seemed to be an attempt to look busy. Nicky could feel his curious eyes on him, naturally since they were now sharing a cell. His gaze didn’t haunt him like that of Officer Keane’s, so Nicky didn’t feel ill at ease around Joe. He set about making his bed then, his back to Joe, but not feeling afraid as when he’d been walking through the “fishbowl.”

“Hey,” Joe called out as Nicky tucked in his sheets on his bed. “I’ve got...some business to do.” He coughed, like he was nervous. “Lunch is starting now so people will be headed over to the mess hall. You can head over now, or….” He seemed to chew on something in his mouth, thinking. “Or if you want to wait like ten minutes, I can take you. Show you how to line up. I mean, I’m supposed to, but I really got to see a guy about a thing. So…”

“I’ll wait,” Nicky said softly, offering Joe a small smile. “Might get lost.”

Joe chuckled. “Yeah, so much open space here. All right. I’ll be back.” He pocketed something from behind the toilet when Nicky had his attention back on his bed, and headed out, leaving Nicky alone to really grapple with his new situation.

Nicky took a few deep breaths then, letting the tremor in his hands come out that he had spent so much of his energy already holding in. His breath came out slow and stuttering, and he could feel the rising panic in his throat. No matter how familiar this might be to his time in the seminary, praying on stone cold floors and living out his vow of poverty, nothing could compare to being caged in thick concrete walls, housed amongst animals ready to tear him apart, and realize he would never be part of the outside world again.

_ Eighty years _ , he reminded himself.  _ If I live that long, I’ll be over a hundred. There is no life for me anywhere but here now. _ He swallowed hard, determined not to cry.  _ This is my punishment. I deserve it, and I will serve it. _

He laid the itchy, greenish grey blanket over his bed, leaning over to tuck in the sides when he heard the scrap of shoes behind him in the cell doorway. He marveled at how quick Joe had been wherever it was he went with whatever he had been hiding, but an unfamiliar voice quickly made him realize it was not Joe.

“ _ Hola princessa _ ,”said the voice, dripping with overwrought sweetness. Nicky jumped up and turned to face the stranger walking into his cell, only to discover the voice was not alone. There were three, the shortest in the middle with a sinisterly thin braid draped over his shoulder, flanked by two large and thick necked men. One was bald save for his black goatee, and the other had a head of thick brown hair. All of them with tattoos up and down their arms.

Nicky tried to swallow down his fear and hid his trembling fingers by balling them into fists. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, trying his best to heed Joe’s advice.

“Don’t be scared,” the rat tailed one said with a half cocked grin as he sauntered closer to Nicky. “I --well,  _ we _ , just wanted to come and say  _ welcome _ .” He licked his lips, eyeing Nicky up and down. “What’s your name,  _ princessa _ ?” He crowded into Nicky’s space, forcing him to back up until he bumped into the steel metal sink welded to the wall. The other two behind him came in and began to search through Nicky’s freshly made bed and shelf. 

“Don’t touch that,” Nicky barked out, lurching forward, amazed that he kept his voice from shaking. He had nothing worth stealing and nothing to hide, but somehow he knew this was some kind of test of his boundaries and willingness to fight or roll over.

“Hey, hey, woah, don’t get all worked up,” the rat tailed one said as he reached out to place a hand against Nicky’s chest to keep him at bay. “Now why don’t you tell Beto your name, or you like it when I call you  _ princessa _ , huh?” His hand trailed up from his chest to his throat, almost caressing it. “Or do I already know your name, huh?” His thumb ghosted over Nicky’s adam apple. “Nicolò DiGenova…”

Nicky took his eyes off the two rustling through his meager belongings to stare into the eyes of the man before him with his hand against his neck. 

“You know my family is from Boyle Heights,” Beto continued, pressing into Nicky’s neck with more intent. “And I’ve been to that church a lot. You know, the one where you killed _ him _ . My whole family has.”

The two men behind him stopped their ransacking to approach, their eyes fixed on Nicky with hateful stares. One smiled though, his eyes greedily taking in Nicky’s trapped body. 

“I spent a lot of time at that church,” Nicky replied, trying to keep his voice and hands steady. He allowed the hand to remain on his throat, feeling how close to the edge the men were. Sharks in the water, scenting blood, circling. “Good community.”

“ _ Yes _ , very good people. And the priests there always helping. Never heard of you though. But heard of Padre Perez. He helped a lot of people.  _ Mi familia _ also. A good,  _ good _ man.”

Nicky grit his teeth.  _ No _ , he wanted to scream.  _ He was not a good man. _

“And what about you, Nicolò DiGenova? Are you a good man?”

Nicky’s breath caught in his throat.  _ I’m not _ , he knew. 

Beto’s dark eyes bored into him, before flicking down to stare at Nicky’s mouth, a thin line as he locked his jaw in place. His fingers traced up Nicky’s neck to his cheek, feathery light touches, before his thumb moved to stroke his bottom lip, pulling it out of Nicky’s grimace. 

His two bruisers leaned in closer, grinning.

“You like to fuck little kids, Nicolò DiGenova?”

Nicky grit his teeth, anger threatening to burst out. He glared at Beto.

“That why your  _ gringo  _ ass liked to work at that little church? Have access to all the little boys and girls? I heard about you. Come into  _ my _ neighborhood, rape kids, and kill a good man of  _ my  _ community?”

_ No! I didn’t...and he was….  _ Nicky raged inside, his breath coming out hard and erratic. Perhaps the three men took it for Nicky’s fear, but it was fury and shame. He could feel his hands on Father Perez, beating him over and over, the shock of his body against his knuckles. The terrified look in his eyes as he died.

Beto’s finger pressed down on Nicky’s lip, jabbing his thumb against Nicky’s lower teeth. His cruel smile returned. 

“Your mouth is very pretty, Nicolò. Maybe we have some fun with it. Pay some penance, huh, padre? Teach you what happens to chomo bitches like you.” He licked his own thin lips. “Maybe ask God for forgiveness on your knees while you choke on my cock for killing a good man like Padre Perez.”

“Father Perez,” Nicky ground out, finding his voice, pushing into Beto’s finger as he leaned forward, “was a  _ monster. _ ”

Beto’s smile snapped back into a deep frown. “The fuck did you just say to me? You  _ gringo _ mother fuck--”

Nicky snatched his thumb between his teeth before he could finish, biting down with all the rage inside him. Beto howled in pain, the other two startled back into inaction as they simply watched the blood spill around Nicky’s lips..

“Fuck!” Beto yelled, yanking his hand away from Nicky’s teeth, blood flowing freely from his mauled finger and trailing down Nicky’s chin, a few droplets spotting on his fresh new prison clothes. Beto’s two goons caught him as he fell backwards, steadying him. “ _ Chinga tu madre _ !”

Clutching his wounded finger to his chest, Beto seethed, glaring back at Nicky. He bared his ugly, yellowed teeth at him, shaking almost now from the shock of pain and hate-filled rage. Nicky returned the hard stare, squaring his shoulders and straightening himself to his full height as best he could.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you stupid-fucking--, ”Beto began to shout, before a loud, almost humorful voice yelled behind him, “Beto!”

The two thick necked bruisers behind him turned like the parting of the sea to reveal Joe standing in the doorway to the cell. Likewise, Joe now had a view of Beto holding his bloodied hand while a wide-eyed Nicky looked ready to fight, crimson painting his lower lip and chin.

“Eyyy, Joe!” Beto replied back with his sickeningly sweet smile returning, cradling his bleeding thumb into his body. “I hope you don’t mind, but I kinda got a little business with your new friend here. Why don’t you go to lunch,  _ chico _ , and I’ll make sure to clean up before I go.” His two muscled helpers crossed their arms, as if daring Joe to refuse. Nicky nervously looked between all of them, before his eyes landed on Joe’s unreadable face.

He wanted to beg for help, but he did know how or even if he should.

Instead, Joe began to laugh. A little chuckling at first before falling into full blown belly laughs as he walked in, nearly doubling over. The others minus Nicky nervously began to mirror him.

Joe straightened up, wiping a fake tear from his eye, as he said, “Beto, Beto, Beto...do I come into your home and fuck up your shit?” He remained smiling, staring only at Beto who seemed smaller under Joe’s gaze.

“C’mon, Joe,” Beto sang sweetly, spreading his hands out in offering, the gore of his injured finger on full display. “I mean no disrespect. But we’ve got business with the priest. It’s a religious, family matter, you understand? Besides, I’ll make it worth your while.” The two men flanking him uncrossed their arms, standing as a silent threat.

“Beto, see, you say no disrespect, and yet you stand there, in  _ my _ cell,  _ disrespecting _ me with your rat-fuck face and stupid rat tail hair to match, with fucking tweedle dumb and tweedle dipshit along to threaten me .” Joe’s smile dropped then, a stone hard look to his face that promised hell and wrath. 

Beto scoffed, walking towards Joe as if they were the oldest of friends.

“Ey, Joe, c’mon man--,” Beto began just as Joe reached out and grabbed the man’s injured hand, squeezing down painfully hard to draw a sharp cry from Beto. Leading him by the bloodied hand like an adult punishing a child, Joe turned, dragging Beto along with him towards the open door of the cell, before shoving him out.

The two thick-necked escorts started forward to engage Joe, but a sharp glare from his cold eyes stopped them in their tracks.

“Get the fuck out,” he seethed at them, jutting his lower jaw out as he widnened his stance, bending his knees, ready for whatever fight they chose to start. The two looked between each other and back to Joe, before deciding against the fight Joe offered. They made an awkward circle around Joe in the narrow confines of the cell to get to the door where Beto was nursing his wounded hand and pride.

“What the fuck, Joe!” Beto yelled. “This is  _ la familia _ business! When Toto hears about this--”

“You gonna tattle on me, Beto?” Joe went to the doorway of the cell, resting his muscled arms against either side of the opening, stretching his shirt tighter across his chest. “Like a little fucking girl?” He twisted his mouth in thought. “You know what? Go ahead. Tell Toto. See how he feels about you bringing your shit into  _ my home _ and fucking around with my shit. Now get out of my sight before I really lose my temper.”

“Why the fuck do you care about some fucking-pedo-priest--”

“What did I just fucking say?” Joe shouted, finally drawing the attention of a few C.O.’s who had been suspiciously absent for most of the encounter. Beto and the others eyed the approaching officers warily before shooting Joe one last disgusted look and taking off, hiding his bloodied hand from view.

“What the hell, ladies?” shouted one of the C.O.’s at the small gathering of prisoners watching the show. “It’s meal time. If you’re late, you don’t eat.”

Joe stepped back into the cell, watching the retreating figures before turning to assess the room. He peered around at Nicky’s now messed up bed and scattered belongings. Nicky remained leaning against the sink, unsure if he could stand without it, coming down from the adrenaline rush.

“You….okay?” Joe asked without looking at him, inspecting his side of the cell.

“Yes,” Nicky replied in a small voice, struggling to breath evenly. “I’m fine.” The sticky blood on his chin felt cold.

“Okay,” Joe replied, moving his tongue around his mouth in thought. “Did they touch my stuff?”

“Um, no, just...just mine.” Nicky turned to look at his bed. “I have to remake it. My bed.” He started moving towards it, before Joe stopped him.

“Your face,” he began, pointing towards his own mouth like a mirror. “You’ve got some--you should clean it up.”

“Oh, right.” Nicky stared into Joe’s eyes, a rush of heat rising up his neck under his gaze. He turned around, afraid to keep looking, afraid he might drown in them. He turned on the water in the sink, his hands trembling ever so slightly, before wiping at his chin.

“Are you...sure you’re okay?” Joe asked when he was finished, his eyes trying to look away from Nicky, peering around the room but always finding their way back to him. Nicky turned around, wiping the rest of the red stain from his chin with the back of his hand. But a red tint remained on his lower lip.

“Yes. I’m not hurt. I...Thank you,” Nicky said softly, his lips lingering on the shape of the last word, pursing ever so slightly on the  _ u- _ sound. 

Joe’s eyes dropped again to stare at the little circle Nicky’s lips made on the sound, before snapping back to himself.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, his voice void of emotion. “I just don’t like other people bringing their shit into my cell. If Beto wants to kill you, he can do it somewhere else.” He glared back up at Nicky. “Now fix your bed quick or we’ll be late to lunch.”

Joe turned away from Nicky, heading towards their open cell door. 

“Okay, Joe,” Nicky mumbled. He hesitated, wanting to thank Joe again despite what he just said. He wanted to reach out, touch his arm, feel the solidness of him in his palm. But those thoughts were sinful and unbidden. 

_ Remember your promise _ , he reminded himself as he began to rearrange his bed as best he could before following Joe out of the cell.

“Nicky,” Joe said with his back still to him. “The last thing you need to know is that I’m not your friend. We share a cell and that’s it. I’m no one’s friend. Especially not yours. So you better learn to take care of yourself. You got me?”

Nicky swallowed hard, tucking his blanket back into bed.

_ I don’t deserve friends or kindness _ , he knew.  _ So it’s only natural he would not want me as a friend. I’m a murderer. And disgusting. It’s what I deserve. To be alone. _

“I understand, Joe.” 


	5. Making Enemies is Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe tries not to think about Nicky so much and some neo-nazis approach Nicky about joining their club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be racist white supremacists in this chapter so they're gonna say a lot of bad things that I do *not* agree with and neither does Nicky. So racist language and slurs used by a clearly identified nazi.

Joe often hated the cold, especially when the delivery guy was running late, leaving him trying to find comfort from his morning cigarette. He stood on the loading dock. It was well into autumn when the weather finally chilled, transitioning from its usual constant sunshine and heat. The heat had its own set of problems, the prison often sweltering in ungodly summer temperatures, cooking the inmates within its concrete walls. But Joe didn’t mind that to the cold sting on his nose and in his fingers now.

Still, being outside and enjoying fresh air was always a nice plus, even if he had to share it with the large gated dumpster next to him full of the prison’s foul garbage. He’d been here long enough to acclimate somewhat to the stench, and wondered if the day would come when he couldn’t even smell it at all.

“Fucking finally,” he muttered as the guards opened one of many black steel gates separating them from the outside world. A large big rig drove through before maneuvering the difficult path to get itself turned around to back into the loading dock. The piercing sound of the truck's warning signal as it slowly made its way closer to Joe was just on the cusp of giving him a headache.

It wouldn’t normally have, as Joe worked the kitchen shift four days a week, used to handling the deliveries, but he also hadn’t slept particularly well. He yawned, fighting off the sleep that clung to him. 

Joe’s new life with Nicky at Old Guard Prison was certainly not a dull one, though whether that was a positive or negative development remained to be seen. This morning might fall into the negative column with how achingly hard he was upon waking.

Nicky had slept below him relatively quietly last night, but in the morning was caught in a nightmare of sorts that drew some particularly distracting moans from him as the light from outside began to creep in. The blood gathering in his dick was deeply inconvenient to Joe’s early morning obligations. He palmed himself through his underwear, sleeping only in briefs and an undershirt, wishing he had the time to take care of himself.

In the end, it was Keane’s booming voice announcing the first wake up call that quashed his growing desire. The lights came on, the panel flickering above Joe and disturbing his reverie. A few metallic clangs sounded throughout the block as the impatient C.O.’s took it upon themselves to assist waking up the prisoners with their batons on the bars.

Frustrated, he slid off his bunk and made to start stretching away the usual stiffness and soreness one got from sleeping on those hard beds. He glanced over to where Nicky slept, curious to see how his new cellmate handled the first morning in his new home. Bleary eyed and yawning, he appeared exhausted as expected, though Joe found a small spark of amusement at the odd angles of his bedhead. 

_ Maybe not the worst morning _ , he mused.

One of the C.O.’s came over to Joe as the truck finally parked. C.O. Benito carried his usual clipboard, ready with his checklist for inspection. He gave Joe a knowing look before standing beside him, his breath creating a cloud of a white haze. He was nicely bundled in a Merrick Trust branded puffer jacket, gloves, and a beanie while Joe endured the cold in his thermal shirt under his navy prison smock, a threadbare jacket, and a faded grey beanie sitting on top of his head.

The delivery driver came around, his eyes passing between Joe and C.O. Benito before sliding up on the door on the truck to let the officer in for inspection. Crates of mildly fresh produce, rejected for imperfection or bruising, stood on one side while boxes of preserved, packaged food of suspicious origin lined the other side. 

The driver came to stand beside Joe as they waited, his hands shoved into his pockets. Joe offered him his cigarette which he accepted without a word.

C.O. Benito looked into a crate, pushing aside the bruised fruits inside, unveiling cartons of cigarettes hidden underneath. He made a note on his checklist before pulling down a sealed box, tearing it open. Inside that box, bags of vacuumed sealed preserved mixes of foods known simply as “slop,” and underneath, a few cellphones amongst other miscellaneous small electronics. 

He made another mark on his checklist as he walked back over to Joe.

“All clear,” he said with a blank face.

“Good to hear,” Joe replied back, reaching into C.O. Benito’s pocket to deposit a wad of cash. “I’ll start unloading.“ C.O. Benito cracked a smile then, before heading back inside to escape the cold, as a troop of Toto’s men came out to help start unloading. They knew to wait until Joe had finished conducting his business before coming out to unload the truck.

Joe set down the last of the crates onto a dolly right as Toto came out to greet Joe.

“ _ Qué tal _ , Joe? Good delivery today?” he asked Joe, his eyes shifting around slowly to take in the scene to make sure everything was still on the down low. It was good for Toto to be a cautious man, reminding Joe not to be so flippantly sure of his ability to bribe the inspection officers to look the other way. There were always some that couldn’t be bribed and some who didn’t understand the importance of discretion.

“Very good,” Joe replied as the dolly was carted off by another of Toto’s men. “I think everyone’s gonna be happy with today’s delivery.”

“Even the slop?” Toto asked with a grin.

“Never the slop, man,” Joe chuckled in return. “They’ll always be trying to feed us shit that’s just one level above poison.”

“Ey, don’t worry about it. My boys work hard to make it into something passable.” Despite his reputation, Toto was appreciated as kitchen manager, working his magic to make the Old Guard prison food edible. He credited his  _ abuela _ for teaching him and took a surprising amount of pride in it. Joe often wondered if Toto hadn’t ended up here, maybe he’d be running a little hole in the wall somewhere in downtown that all the hipsters would flock to. He could easily picture Toto’s big smile as he greeted all his adoring customers, instead of standing here on a vomit stained loading dock in his prison scrubs.

“It’s a pity Joe, that we didn’t know each other on the outside before this. You come to my family gatherings, eat my food, you think you’d died and gone to heaven.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I almost die everyday eating this shit right here.”

“Ey, fuck you,  _ ese _ ,” Toto playfully teased. “For the miracles my boys work in the kitchen, you should be sucking my dick in thanks.”

“Keep dreaming, Toto.” Joe winked.

“Speaking of that, Joe…” Toto’s face dropped, becoming dead serious. “We have some business to discuss.” He looked at Joe, silently communicating what they both already knew was the subject of this business.

Joe eyed the man intently.  _ The priest _ , he knew.

Despite his warning to Nicky that they weren’t friends, Joe couldn’t help but still play guide to him that morning. Explaining his early shift in the kitchen, Joe had given the option to come to the crowded showers with him instead of waiting until after hours when it was less crowded. Joe tried to reason to himself that he was simply doing what Copley had asked of him, and yet another part knew that he did it because Nicky would definitely get jumped in the showers.

“What’s the difference between going now and going after hours?” Nicky had asked, hesitating to go during what Joe had deemed the crowded hours.

“You go now, showers are crowded as fuck, but there’s more guards on duty and you’re less likely to get jumped. Or get a show of two guys going at it.” He watched the pink flush that bloomed on Nicky’s face, traveling down his neck. Joe wondered how far down it traveled.

“Going at it?” Nicky looked at Joe, confused.

“Yeah, you know, _ fucking _ . Sex.” Joe spelled it out for him. Oh, how his flushed face deepened at that. Joe grinned, trying not to laugh. A part of him was tempted to lean down towards him and whisper in his ear about the other men he’d rendezvoused with who’d found pleasure on Joe’s cock just to see how red he could get Nicky to turn.

In the end, Nicky had gone with him to brave the crowded morning showers. And while they stood in line, Joe doing his best to try not to linger his eyes too long on Nicky and the delectable curve of his ass in nothing but a towel, Joe had caught sight of Beto’s scowl directed at the both of them, holding his arms across his tattooed chest, scabbed and bruised thumb on full display.

“Wondered how long it’d be before Beto ran his mouth,” Joe said with a grimace. He tried to act as if it was the offending morning light hitting him at just the wrong angle, but Joe knew deep down it was the image of Beto and his goons crowding Nicky that truly irked him.

“Well, with his fucked up hand, it was hard not to ask questions. Plus, you know Beto. He’s always been a  _ pinche perro _ . Never shuts up. And I’m a fair man, you know that, so I gotta listen to his complaints.”

“He came into  _ my _ cell, Toto, and disrespected me. I ain’t tolerating that shit.”

“Ey, Joe, man, I know. Told him to cool off and not make any more stupid ass moves until I talked to you. First of all, know that I gave him no permission to go try to start shit like that, especially in your cell. Stupid  _ pendejo _ , I ask what the fuck he was thinking. And guess what, fuckin’  _ pendejo _ wasn’t thinking.”

Joe regarded the man, appreciating the fact Toto hadn’t approved Beto’s little ambush on Nicky in their cell yet waiting for the inevitable “but…” 

“But….Joe, Beto and a few other guys have a serious problem with this guy, this  _ priest _ . And I can’t just dismiss their concerns, you know? I’m not from Beto’s neighborhood, but I can’t say that if I was in the same position as him, I wouldn’t also want to deliver some justice  _ para mi familia,  _ you understand?”

Joe chewed on the inside of his mouth, not sure why he felt unease at Toto’s words. Nicky was the concern, and who was Nicky to Joe?

_ No one, _ he reminded himself. It didn’t matter how bewitching those incandescent eyes were, how pink he flushed when awoken by the sound of Joe’s morning piss, or how much he stuttered when Joe stripped in plain sight to get ready for the showers. 

Those bright eyes of Nicky’s had stolen a quick, shy glance at Joe’s cock bouncing between his thighs, before darting away. But Joe had caught it, the memory seared into his brain. Even just that quick glance excited Joe like Nicky had put his wide hands against his skin.

“I don’t care what his issue is with the guy,” Joe huffed out, trying his best to sound disinterested. “Just as long as he stays outta my cell. Had he done something to the guy, beaten or killed him, what do you think would’ve happened? C.O.’s be charging into my cell and tossing it, giving them any little excuse to throw my ass in the hole. Imagine how delighted Keane would be to have a reason to keep me in seg for weeks. How do you think that’ll affect business?”

“Joe, man, look, I get it. And no one’s arguing that. We got a good thing going here. Everyone’s satisfied, and the money we make here is good. Allows a lot of the guys in here to get money to their families. I don’t need reminding, and I made sure to impress upon Beto how unhappy it makes me when  _ you _ are unhappy, you get me? But I just gotta know, Joe, is this guy, this priest, he anything to you?”

“You really asking me if I’m attached to a  _ priest _ who literally just showed up yesterday?” Joe itched to light another cigarette, feel the calming inhale of smoke.

“Look, I can only go off of what I see. Beto tells me the guy is a madman, bit his finger like a wild animal. Okay, maybe Beto was askin’ for it, but then Beto makes it sound like you charged in to defend him, so gets me to wondering...maybe this guy sucked your soul out through your dick or some shit. And maybe you were getting a little territorial.”

Joe scoffed, trying his best to suppress the image of those lips stretched around his cock, those sea-green eyes staring at him….

“C’mon Beto,” Joe said before the sound of his sudden laughter, cut sharply through the chill morning air. “I like to think the sight of my cock is impressive, but I doubt it’s that impressive.”

Toto cocked a half smile, chuckling. “Okay, so we got no issue then?”

“Nope,” Joe answered quickly, swallowing hard. “Just not in my cell.”

“So, outside your cell... he’s fair game?”

“Yup.” Joe glanced away, staring off at nothing while he worried the skin of his cheek with his teeth. 

_ I need a smoke. _

“Though I’m a bit surprised Toto. Thought you’re Catholic. Isn’t fucking with a priest kinda sacrilegious?”

Toto scrunched up his face in apathetic thought, shrugging. “I am. But you know, sometimes, different rules for different situations, you know? He’s a priest, but he’s also a killer. And if that  _ gringo _ killed someone from Beto’s home, a  _ mexicano _ , I mean, a man can’t let that stand. Besides, some guys are saying he’s a chomo, so it’s not like I’d lose much sleep over his ass getting beat. Or worse.”

_ If he’s some kind of kid fucker, then yeah, he’d deserve it....If.  _

Joe kept his thoughts to himself. He’d given one last warning to Nicky this morning before leaving for the kitchen.

“Today’s gonna be more of the same, you know? Guys other than Beto coming at you, trying to get you to flinch, harass you, or befriend you. And...look, gangs stick together mainly by race, some further divided by region like the latinos, and others by religion. It’s just how it is here. Who you hook up with for protection also dictates who will shank your ass when given the chance. Not many Italians here like the old days, but someone will approach you about joining a gang. And...I’m not here to tell you how to survive here, you do you. But there are bad choices and there are worse choices.”

Those worse choices for Joe was the Aryan Brotherhood. Joe wanted to warn Nicky to stay away from them, but at the same time, he knew they might also be his best protection with him declared an open target for  _ La Familia _ . Besides, maybe it would be easier to just not care at all about Nicky then since he couldn’t seem to stop himself from pitying the guy.

_ What if he’s just some guy in over his head?  _

“Thank you, Joe,” Nicky said softly in reply as Joe began to leave. 

Joe couldn’t understand what it was about his voice that made him want to linger.

Joe dug around in his jacket pocket, desperately seeking another cigarette though he knew he had no time to smoke it before going inside. Without looking back at Toto, Joe shrugged and said, “As long as it all stays away from me and my business, Toto, then I ain’t go no problem.” 

“Glad we’ve come to an understanding,” Toto replied with a smile, patting Joe on the shoulder. The heavy-set man turned to head back inside.

“But Toto,” Joe found his voice saying despite his better judgement. “The priest, he’s a pretty high profile case here. So...something happens to him, let’s say---he gets his skull cracked open or worse....that’d bring a lot of unwanted attention down on the prison. And our cell block. We’re talking searches, lockdowns, beatings... Which means no business going in or out for who knows how long. You remember two years ago? You get me?”

Toto paused to study Joe’s face, searching for something. His jovial smile was long gone, and instead was the hard stone-like expression that had earned him the respect and loyalty of the men under him.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Joe.”

Nicky fidgeted with the hem of his prison smock as he made his way towards the mess hall for breakfast, his first time to do so without Joe. Despite Joe’s insistence that they were not friends, Joe had accompanied him both to lunch and later dinner the day before, even allowing Nicky to sit across from him at the tables. They ate in silence, but somehow Nicky felt comforted to be sitting with Joe. No one else approached him or said anything more to him that first day, and while he hoped it meant he was settling in, he knew deep down that it was a looming storm held at bay by Joe’s presence. 

Nicky recalled how terrified he had felt with the three men in his cell, ready to beat him up or worse, but Joe hadn’t batted an eye at their presence. And it seemed that Joe wasn’t one to be trifled with lightly.

_ What even possessed you to bite that guy?  _ Nicky chided himself as he queued up for that morning’s meal, trying his best to ignore any stares pointing in his direction. He was acutely aware of the interested eyes on him, whether it be for his supposed “celebrity” status for his high profile trial or because the three men from yesterday were still out for blood. He kept his eyes cast down but his shoulders square and back straightened. 

_ You know what it was. Father Perez…. _ Nicky felt the flash of anger again.

_ He’s dead. It’s done. That’s why you’re here. To do your penance. This is only day two...of the rest of your life. _

Nicky tried to swallow down his growing anxiety, finding his breath coming in short bursts. He felt trapped, and wanted nothing more than to curl up, squeeze himself tight, and disappear. Time lost meaning and all the noise around him became static. The feeling only grew worse when he looked up to retrieve his tray of food, coming eye to eye with the man Beto from the day before. He seemed less intimidating now in a wiry hair net and wearing clear plastic gloves, but his scowl and his crudely bandaged thumb reminded him very quickly of the taste of his blood between his teeth.

Without a word, Nicky took his tray, holding the man’s gaze, unblinking, before turning and making his way to a somewhat empty spot far down away from where they served the food. As far away as he could get from the man’s hateful stare.

Breathing heavily as he sat down, Nicky tried to quell the rising panic in his chest. His hands shook, realizing he was more angry than afraid. He remembered how the man had praised Father Perez and accused Nicky of harming children. His hands gripped the tray, threatening to bend and snap the plastic, feeling the white hot rage course through him. To harm children like that...Nicky would cut off his own hands first, couldn’t they see that?

_ But you can never really know a man _ , Nicky reminded himself.  _ You thought Father Perez was a good man once. You defended him. You protected him. So it’s only fitting that this is your punishment.  _

Nicky stared down vacantly at the food before him, The food on the plate stared back at him, a rectangle divided into six parts for coffee, a cup of juice, a piece of brown mystery bread, bits of canned fruit, a pile of yellowy scrambled eggs, and a mess of paste that might be considered oatmeal. 

He picked at it, finding his hunger withering quickly. Despite his empty stomach, he felt like he might retch. He’d done plenty of fasting for his training at seminary, yet never had he been as sharply hungry and ill at the same time as he was now. 

“Food here is pretty shit,” came a friendly voice from behind him. Nicky snapped his head around, startled out of his thoughts and on edge, to find a smiling, clean shaven older man, with pale blue eyes and wispy blonde hair. Despite his clean-cut appearance, Nicky could see the traces of tattoos peeking out from his shirt collar and sleeves. “But what can you do? You mind if I sit here?” 

“Oh, um…” Nicky began to say as the man came around the other side to sit across from him. He didn’t wait for Nicky to finish, placing his tray down and making himself right at home. He peered up, smiling at Nicky again, creasing the skin around his cheeks and eyes when he did so, before casting his eyes across the room, waving someone over.

Nicky held himself stiffly as seven other men came one after the other, taking places around the table, flanking the man and surrounding Nicky on all sides. They were a mixed bunch, some tall, some short, some bald, some not, but all fair skinned with traces of black ink poking out around their arms and chest. Their smiles were warm and welcoming, and yet Nicky felt unnerved.

Joe’s last piece of guidance that morning was giving Nicky a quick rundown about what he called “prison politics”-- a crudely simple summation about gang dynamics and how it earned a person both allies and enemies. Although, Nicky already had the distinct displeasure of dealing with the latter without the benefit of a single ally. Despite his warning that he wasn’t going to be one for Nicky, Joe had been the closest thing to an ally so far, and a small part of Nicky felt some strength in that. Even if it was a false hope.

_ He’s not your friend _ , Nicky reminded himself. And yet, he listened carefully to every piece of advice Joe had given so far. Thus, as he took in the smiling faces of the men around him, Nicky wondered,  _ Are these guys the bad choice or the worst choice? _

“You’re Nicolò, right?” the smiling man who had approached first asked while shoveling a bit of oatmeal paste in his mouth. “Though I heard you go by Nicky. You mind if I called you Nicky?”

“No,” Nicky replied, trying his best to assess the man with his eyes. He knew he needed to hide his hesitation and fear per Joe’s advice, but how well he accomplished this was questionable. “Nicky is fine. It’s what I was called in seminary.”

“Oh, right, you’re a priest. Or were. Or still are? How does that work?”

“Oh, um, well I didn’t finish my training or take my final vows before…” A gunshot, the screaming, blood on his hands… His heart pounded sharply in his chest, and he felt a small wave of lightheadedness wash over him. He breathed in deeply, trying to will the memories away. “S-so not officially a priest.”

“Still, you gotta be quite Catholic then if you were going to be a priest?” The man kept his smile, genuine and friendly in appearance, but still Nicky was wary. Because although he couldn’t see this man’s tattoos, the other’s were more clearly on display in Nicky’s peripheral vision.

“You sure he’s not a Jew?” a weasley faced man asked besides Nicky, pointing at his nose. “Got the nose of one. Big.”

“Shut it Muller,” snapped a bald man across from them. “Masterson just asked him about how he was a priest. How would he be a fuckin’ Jew? How are you so goddamn stupid?” 

“Hey guys,” Masterson chided, his smile never wavering. “Let’s be civil in front of our new friend. Besides, Nicolò diGenova is -- Italian, am I right?” He looked to Nicky for confirmation. “And many Italians are still pure blooded. I mean look at the kid -- those eyes and skin couldn’t be from muddied blood.”

Nicky remained silent, his eyes locked on the pale man in front of him who casually speared a piece of fruit to pop between his thin, colorless lips.

Oswald “Oz” Masterson, Prisoner number OG 8833, head of the Aryan Brotherhood at The Old Guard prison, believer of the purity and supremacy of the white race, kept his genial smile trained on Nicky as he chewed his food, like a trained salesman having lunch with a potential client.

“Ugh, those damn illegals in the kitchen can’t even make a decent breakfast. I bet they keep all the good stuff for themselves. See, Nicky,” he began, popping another piece of fruit in his mouth, “guys like us, we have to stick together in here. Make sure to keep a strong front against the rising tide of blacks and spics. I already heard you got some harassment from the Mexicans -- now we have a truce of sorts with them so we can make sure they stay away from you. Truce of not, I will not allow a goddamn spic to harm one of mine, you understand?” 

The weasel faced Muller to the right of Nicky and another hulking brute of a man on his other side pressed in closer. Nicky shot them quick glances to see their off-putting grins as they studied Nicky’s face. They were clearly not as trained in the art of charm as the man in front of them.

“Italian and Catholic aren’t our usual cup of tea -- wasn’t my father’s right type of white you know, but these days, with the corrupt liberal government allowing these damn illegals to overrun us, our proud white heritage is being destroyed and our rights to free speech are being trampled by these damn social-justice-snowflakes and Antifa. So, you see, Nicky, we gotta stick together.

“Catholics still believe in the same God as us good Christians, so there’s another reason to stick together, lest we get overrun by the Jews and jihadi-fanatics. I mean it’s bad enough I got to listen to those towel-heads yammering on five times a day for their prayers. How am I supposed to feel about them shoving  _ their _ ‘allah’ in my face, disrespecting my God like that?”

The men all around Nicky laughed, mockingly imitating the sound of their arabic prayers. Nicky clenched tight around his plastic fork in his hand, as the men carried on, the ones beside him clapping him on the back as if he was a part of them already. This was a test-- an offer of friendship and protection. All Nicky had to do to accept, to finally gain allies and a safe haven from the dangers around him, was to offer a simple smile back.

“Our gods are the same,” Nicky said. The laughing continued, the men not hearing Nicky’s words, until he said them again, louder this time, “We all worship the same God of Abraham.”

“What?” Masterson asked him, tilting his head at Nicky in question.

“Jew, Christians, Muslims -- we all worship the same one and only God,” Nicky said with his own smile, raising his head to meet the eyes of Masterson full on. The laughter died around him, leaving only the hum of other conversations around the hall. He felt their eyes boring into him, and it only urged him on more. “We are three branches of the same tree. To think of any of the other branches as less or more is incorrect and full of hubris.” 

Masterson regarded him steadily, his bright, friendly smile dampening. Nicky fiddled with the plastic fork in his hand, shifting it around so only the tines were poking out of his clenched fist. He felt the cold perspiration between his fingers.

“Are you insulting the good christian God, the one, true God of this great country, by comparing him to those terrorists’ heathen God?” His smile somehow remained, but it was chillingly haunting now. He leaned forward towards Nicky, letting the swastika tattooed on his chest peak out more.

“No. It is but humble guidance to those who are lost in conceit,” Nicky said calmly, trying to keep his temper at bay. His temper had already gotten him into trouble twice. Despite being surrounded by these neo-nazis, the mess hall was full of people and a couple of C.O.’s were on guard. Surely to start a fight, for either Masterson or Nicky, would be madness.

“Are you calling me an idiot?” Masterson paused for a moment. He shifted in his seat to straighten his posture and resumed eating his food, his tactic changing. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that kind insult coming from a pedo.” Nicky felt his hand jump, squeezing down harder on the plastic fork in his hand. 

“I am not  _ that _ ,” Nicky seethed. “And I am also not an ignorant racist.”

Masterson sighed. “Well, Nicky, see from where I’m sitting, the rumor is you are exactly  _ that _ , being a priest in all. Bad reputations priests have. And no one likes a child rapist, especially here. But still, I like you Nicky. And I think we can help each other. See, you call me a racist -- that word gets tossed around so much by the liberal media when all I am doing is trying to protect  _ my  _ family and  _ my _ culture. No one has it harder in America than the white man these days. But I can understand how you got this idea twisted, and I can teach you the right way of things. We just want to help, Nicky, don’t we fellas?”

Nicky was suddenly aware of the apt eyes on him, studying him up and down, the weasel faced Muller leaning in close to breath in the air around Nicky like an animal scenting its prey. He was the closest to him now, his body turned halfway to face Nicky’s side, one hand rubbing his back, and other inching closer to Nicky’s hand pressed flat on the table.

“See, I’m a generous and forgiving guy -- you Catholics know all about forgiveness, don’t you? In the spirit of christendom, I am going to forgive your little insult and offer you our friendship. Like a good christian soul. We keep you safe from those itching to beat down a dirty pedo, and in exchange, you show us all thanks from time to time.”

Nicky could see how Muller licked his lips beside him, his sour breath brushing against Nicky’s cheek as he leaned in ever closer. 

“Can’t let the black or the latinos have you. Always trying to take our white pussy. So, first thing we’ll do is have you request a new cell assignment to one of ours. Works best when we’re all grouped together. Not to mention I saw you paired with that Kaysani bastard, who I’m sure is just dying to fuck your ass, that dirty sand ni--,”

And there it was, the final straw for Nicky. He shoved his elbow into Muller's chest, knocking him back before making to grab the weasley hand on the table with one hand while he brought down the clasped plastic tines of the fork positioned in his fist. Muller howled in pain, the plastic tines snapping but still strong enough to break skin, a couple of them embedding deeply into the back of his hand. 

Blood had been drawn, drops dotting the table and Nicky’s fist as he let go of his broken plastic weapon. His breaths quickened, his vision narrowing into a single focus. The blood both frightened him and excited him, bringing him back to a cold Christmas Eve night. There was only fury and instinct there, and it drove him.

Masterson’s smile finally dropped, but Nicky had no time to relish the sight. Possessed by another spark of madness that seemed to be marking many of Nicky’s decisions lately, he stood up, grabbing his tray, flinging the barely touched food into Masterson’s face. Using it as a weapon, he whacked the man to his right from cheek to cheek. The thin plastic struck hard enough to knock him back and fill the hall with the  _ crack _ of it snapping in half across his face.

Everything erupted into chaos then, the other inmates taking notice of the scuffle, cheering and hollering to egg on the brawl with some surging towards it to join in. Men jumped onto the tables, shouting and tossing their trays, as the rest of the Aryan Brotherhood charged Nicky. He shoved one off and swung wildly at another, making contact before getting tackled at the waist, sending them both tumbling to the floor where they rolled around, trying to get atop one the other. 

The C.O.’s charged forward, calling over their radio for backup as they shoved the prisoners away to get at the brawling men trying to pile on top of Nicky. Nicky thought he might suffocate from the bodies blanketing him, hands trying to find and strike him. Maybe if they did, he would be spared the rest of this sentence and find his way home to his mother. He closed his eyes and began to ask God for forgiveness, waiting for the hands to tear him apart…

Cruelly, he gasped back to life as the bodies were pulled off of him. The C.O.'s managed to charge in, ending the fight. They pressed the Aryans down into the floor, zip tying their hands behind their back, while the rest of the hall continued to cheer on despite being pushed back from the scuffle by batons and orders to vacate the mess hall. Soon, it was Nicky’s turn to be roughly hauled up and pressed face down into the hard, metal table, now slick with spilled and smashed bits of food, his hands twisted behind him and bound, as the C.O.’s finally brought the brawl to an end. He tasted the metallic tang of his own blood on his upper lip, and he wondered dully when he had started to bleed.

Joe had just managed to clear his thoughts of Nicky as the breakfast shift winded down when he heard the commotion. He’d snuck away to the pantry area where shelves lined the walls with the day’s shipment and usual staples the kitchen kept on hand. It had always been a little quiet spot the guys would escape to for a smoke or to play cards, though Toto ran a tight ship and didn’t let them dally too long when there was work to do.

Pocketing his cigarette, Joe came out to find the kitchen guys all lined up and crowded around one another as they hooted and hollered at a sight beyond them still hidden from Joe. He could hear the shouts of the other inmates and what was clearly the sound of a fight going on. The sight up it had worked the room into a frenzy, though they were not uncommon occurrences so Joe wasn’t particularly interested. Though he was always up to see if the fight had somehow involved a particularly irritating inmate or any of the Aryans. 

_ It’s always fun to see a nazi get punched, _ Joe reasoned. 

“Hey, Fernando,” Joe nudged one of the guys bunching around to look. “Who’s jumping who?” With the excitement, Joe wondered if one of the C.O.’s had been jumped. He hoped it wasn’t Booker, or any of them really. A C.O. getting jumped meant beatings and random searches for everybody.

Fernando smiled back at Joe, tilting his head toward the ruckus. “It’s your boy, the priest.”

_ Nicky!? _

Without another word, Joe pushed his way past enough to finally get a good view of what was the tail end of the brawl. The C.O.’s had broken most of it up, though the inmates continued their cheering much to the guards’ annoyance. Several of the Aryans laid faced down, their hands bound behind their backs as one by one they were hauled up to be taken to the hole.

At last Joe’s eyes landed on Nicky as he was hauled up off a table, his smock askew, a trail of blood leaking from his nose and a wild and dangerous look in those large expressive eyes. He didn’t fight the guards as he was hauled away, but he didn’t cower or hunch either. For some reason, Joe felt the slightest sense of pride at the sight.

_ Son of a bitch _ , Joe thought as he chuckled to himself.  _ Guy’s got fight. _

Joe caught himself grinning on and off for the rest of his shift, recalling the sight of Nicky fresh from his fight and relishing the image of the aryans’ pissed off looks. He shook his head, trying not to let his thoughts be so consumed, but repeatedly he failed. 

Before he knew it, he found himself in front of the prison payphone, taking out a crumpled piece of paper he hadn’t looked at in some time, and dialed the number for the office of Legal Aid Los Angeles. 

After being shuffled around from receptionist to receptionist, he finally was able to breath into the phone, “Hey Andy, been a long time I guess.”


	6. Warrior Goddess of Legal Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe gets a visit from Andy who makes her case for Nicky.

Joe had forgotten how much he hated getting visits, especially face to face ones. At least through the glass with communication restricted to the phones, there was a clear reminder of the division between his life in Old Guard Prison and the life he’d left behind. Without the glass and phones, sitting at a table surrounded by others having their own visits, he felt that division blur, allowing the poison of this place to seep out. Joe didn’t want that, he wanted to keep everything and everyone from his old life safe from this place.

_ And from me _ , he knew.

But instead, Andrea O. Synthia had set up a face-to-face visit in the large visiting area that was lined with C.O.s ready to break up the over zealous reunion of men with wives and girlfriends. These rooms were meant mostly for family visits and reunions granted to prisoners who’d been on good behavior, so there were often babies and small children around. But that never stopped certain overenthusiastic couples -- Joe had seen a man embrace his female visitor and pull up her skirt to reveal she wasn’t wearing any underwear. He had her on the table, her legs wrapped around his waist, before two guards hauled them apart, parents shielding the eyes of their children.

_ Yaz better not be here _ , he thought, suddenly afraid Andy was going to try to surprise him with Yasmin in tow. His sister had two boys, aged around seven and ten now. He didn’t want them here, didn’t want them to see him like this. The youngest, Sami, wouldn’t remember him, but Zaki would. He’d played with Zaki, watched  _ Cars _ with him ad nauseum, and snuck candies when Yaz wasn’t looking.  _ No _ , he reminded himself,  _ Yaz wouldn’t bring them here. They don’t belong here. _

Andrea’s appearance relieved him instantly. She was alone, a briefcase in tow, as she was waved in. Even before she looked at him, Joe grinned to himself, seeing already how fed up she was. With what? Who could say. Joe knew she had an ever growing list. But that was Andrea--Andy for short--, warrior queen of Legal Aid.

“Hey Andy,” Joe greeted with a sideways smile, making sure not to stand in greeting lest the C.O.'s think he was going to attempt his own passionate reunion, one guard in particular circling them, eyeing Joe intensely. Andy was, after all, a tall amazonian beauty -- long legs, elegant neck, and a face carved from an artist’s dream in marble made flesh, so who would blame him if he tried. Even if she appeared this morning for their visit remarkably dressed down, a large novelty T-shirt over her blouse, a pair of green jogging sweats, and scuffed up tennis shoes. “You look good.”

“And you look okay,” she shot back, sitting down across from him, assessing him. “Least no bruises or stitches on you, so hopefully that means you’ve been keeping your nose clean. Unlike last time you took my visit.”

_ Ah, yes, my extra years _ , Joe recalled. He had taken her visit then out of necessity, facing five to seven years for aggravated assault for beating up three of the Aryan Brotherhood who had tried jumping him in the showers. Joe made sure they rued the attempt and would fear making any more, and had he gotten the full seven the courts threatened him with, he still wouldn’t regret the broken arms and fractured collar bones he dealt them.  _ That was a good day _ .

“As I said back then, Andy, worth every year tacked on,” Joe said, leaning forward on the table to get closer, the sounds of the reunited families and children making their conversation drowned out.

“Yes, I know. Thank god you only said that to me and not the judge. Would’ve made my job getting your seven down to three years nearly impossible. For a client, you’re an awful huge pain in my ass, you know that, Yusuf? God only knows why I still take your damn calls.”

“I’d like to think it’s cause you’ve got a soft spot for me,” Joe said with a wink. That nearly set the guard off, who had to be waved away by Andy. 

“I swear to God, Yusuf, can you maybe not make my hair go gray so fast.” She had a short haircut, sharp and to the point like the rest of her, raven black and perfectly styled. 

“C’mon Andy, you live for the difficult cases. Why else would you have anchored yourself down with my helpless case?” Joe knew who and what he was. Multiple previous arrests, caught in the middle of committing grand larceny, deadly assault weapon in hand, numerous eye witnesses, and a bag full of cash. They had him dead to rights. Yet, still, somehow Andy had swooped in and saved him from the full extent of the law, without even demanding payment. She was a bit of a bleeding heart that way.

“Apparently, I can be quite the masochist.” She gave him a wry smile, leaning forward on her elbows. “You never appreciated my help then, and I’m sure you don’t even care now despite you being only a year away from parole. I’d say let’s talk strategy about that, but God knows I’d be wasting my damn breath. And yet, you called and still I came, because I am just that good of an attorney even when my clients don’t appreciate me.”

“C’mon Andy, you know I appreciate--”

“Don’t bullshit a lawyer, Joe. I’ve had way more schooling and experience in the art. Why I even took your call is something I had to ask myself before coming in here. After all the times you’ve refused my visits these past few months -- you know what a pain in the ass it is, Yusuf, to take a two hour drive here and back in fucking rush hour L.A. traffic just to get here and have my client just not show up to our meeting? You think I like wasting my time like that?”

“Andy--,”

“Oh, and you know what’s even more fun? The fifteen minutes I have to spend in my car before coming in, taking off all my makeup and all my jewelry, because I’m not allowed in for these face-to-face visits wearing any of that in case somehow I ‘excite’ the inmates too much. Like you’re freaking dogs with bacon in my pocket instead of human beings with rational thought.”

She rubbed her hands together, fingers worrying at the pale band of skin that stuck out on her left ring finger, missing its usual ring. 

_ Achilles’s ring... _ Joe remembered. Joe knew Andy hated taking it off, even if it had been four years.

“Look, Andy, I get it--,”

“Shut up, Yusuf, I’m not done. And then today, I made the mistake of wearing a navy blue pantsuit to work,  _ navy _ fucking  _ blue _ , forgetting that I can’t wear that here in case I’m somehow mistaken for an inmate. Stupid me, I just thought it brought out my eyes. So, then I get to spend  _ another _ fifteen minutes rummaging through my car for any clothes to change into, finding this attractive ensemble you see before you. And lastly, I still have to remove my heels for sneakers, because even the shoes could set an inmate off. Fucking patriarchy, Yusuf. Mother-fucking-pathriarchy.”

Joe waited, seeing Andy was on a tear and not having any desire to stand in her war path. He leaned back while he listened, crossing his arms, waiting and admiring her fight. She had been the same in the courtroom during his initial trial, fighting with the vigor of a pitbull against the shady police tactics and the state’s crusade to rake Joe over the coals. In truth, he was guilty, and yet he knew he would’ve faced worse as a muslim man without Andy kicking legal ass in his corner. 

_ It meant a lot to Yaz _ , he reminded himself. 

“You done?” Joe finally asked once Andy had stopped to take a deep, calming breath.

“Yes,” she huffed out. “Long day yesterday, and another long one today. My only consolation was the guard’s run down of the rules about visitation. It always gives me a certain thrill to watch the men in the group clench their assholes when they get to the part about what to expect during a prison riot. They mention rape, and they think their gender will spare them until the guard reminds them otherwise.” Andy spread her hands out before her as if presenting something truly wonderful. “Equality.”

Joe laughed, drawing an irked expression from the guard who hovered too closely, but Joe didn’t care. He had forgotten how much he just liked Andy as a person, not just as his lawyer. He liked to think under different circumstances, they might even be friends.

“You’re a hell of a woman, Andy. I think I might actually have missed you.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “High praise.” Her smile faded as she cleared her throat. “I’ve got about twenty minutes here before I have to get back on the road to the office, after which I’ll be in court all day. So, tell me, Yusuf, what did you want to talk about?”

Joe balked. “What did  _ I  _ want to talk about? Andy, why do you think I even called you after ignoring your visits for so long?” He tilted his head, regarding her warily. “Let’s not pretend we don’t both know why you’re really here.”

Andy chuckled, a rueful smile across her lips. “How quickly did Copley rat me out?”

“Embarrassingly fast. Man better hope he never ends up on the opposite side here. Snitching like that will get your ass beat or worse.”

Andy sighed. “I would really like it if you didn’t say those kinds of things to your  _ lawyer _ .”

“Hey, we got that whole lawyer-client confidentiality thing going. I could tell you I was responsible for the Kennedy assassination, and you’d have to keep it between us.” Andy rolled her eyes, drawing a smile from Joe. “Don’t even understand why you’re still my lawyer. You got better, more worthy clients to be taking care of.”

“Well, some days when you’re dodging my visits and trying to confess to crimes that happened when you weren’t even born yet, I wonder the same thing. But then I remember I have a soft spot for lost causes.” Andy stroked her left ring finger again absentmindedly. “Why I left my nice, cushy downtown job at a big firm to slum it at Legal Aid. Because I’m a sucker. Love makes you do stupid things, Yusuf.”

“I bet,” Joe mumbled, staring down at where she rubbed her finger, her eyes glazing over as her mind drifted elsewhere. Joe knew where that was.

Joe had met Achilles Freeman only once in all the time Andy had been Joe’s lawyer, but he had been impressed with the man by the very fact that he married a woman like Andy and kept up with her. He had been with her during that first meeting when Andy took Joe’s case but never attended any others, his diagnosis following soon after. When the cancer finally took him, Yazmin had been the one to tell him on one of her visits. 

Joe called Andy to offer his condolences, unable to and uncomfortable with sending a card or flowers from prison. But he felt the need to say something. All she had said in reply at the time was, “Life’s a hell of a thing,” which was the most Andy-like response to a life tragedy.

“So,” Joe started, trying to draw Andy back to the world, “is it love that’s making you want me to keep an eye on the priest so badly?”

“Excuse me?” Andy was the one to tilt her head at Joe now.

“Look, I get it, it’s been a few years for you, this priest is a good-looking guy, maybe you got a soft spot for his case, and now you’re concerned about his well-being? That’s my stab-in-the-dark guess anyway. Otherwise, I can’t figure out why you would care about what happens to a priest-killing-priest. You weren’t his lawyer, so what’s the deal?” Joe smiled at Andy, unable to help himself from being the little flippant shit he could be.

Andy grinned, shaking her head at Joe. 

“First of all, it’s adorable you think that in the four years since my husband died, that I’ve been some kind of celebate widow. Second, wanting to defrock a priest isn’t really one of my kinks. And third, the fact that you bring up his attractiveness really says more about you than me.”

Joe smiled. “Andy, you’re a remarkable woman. I get parole, maybe you and me go out sometime.”

Andy laughed. “Nice deflection, Yusuf. But you’re right on one point-- I wasn’t his lawyer, though I know his case from a colleague. And yes, his case interests me for a larger reason which is why I reached out to Copley. Especially when you stopped taking my visits -- which we will get to, don’t think I’m not still pissed as hell. But first, yes, I want to talk about  _ the priest _ , Nicolò diGenova.”

_ Nicky _ , Joe summoned his name into his head.  _ Nicky, Nicky, Nicky, with the big beautiful eyes and those terribly tempting lips….shit _ . Joe hated these intrusive thoughts that had been popping up more lately. It had gotten worse for the past couple of days since Nicky got sent to seg, leaving Joe to wonder about him while alone in his cell. He’d wake up from some sinful dreams full of the priest, taking advantage of his solitude to find release an embarrassing number of times.

“Yes, the pedo priest,” Joe replied, testing the waters on that particular issue.

“Hey,” Andy snapped, pointing a finger at Joe. “Don’t be spreading that. He’s not a pedophile.”

“You know that for sure? Priests don’t have the greatest track record on that front these days.” 

Andy sighed. “Look, I didn’t get to talk to the guy myself ever. I’m just going by what my colleague told me. And I might be taking his case from him, but regardless, my colleague says he’s nothing of the sort, but…”

“But?” Joe’s interest perked up. “He is?”

“No, it’s not that. Enough of  _ that _ . It’s....” She swallowed hard, leaning in close, trying her best to make sure her words were for Joe and Joe only. “It’s a delicate situation.”

Joe leaned in closer, ignoring the antsy look from the guard who seemed offended by Joe’s intimacy with Andy. They maintained a foot of distance between them though, to make sure not to draw him over to break them apart. From the stern look on Andy’s face, Joe knew Andy meant business now and god help him if he tried to make a wisecrack right now.

“Look Joe, his case, how much do you know about it?”

“Not much. Didn’t care to watch the news coverage. Just know he’s a priest, killed another priest, a Mexican one from a local neighborhood, so lotta guys in here ain’t happy with him. And that’s without the rumor that he might be a pedo.”

“Let me clear this up for you -- yes, he did kill another priest. A Father Junipero Perez. No question about that. There was a whole church full of witnesses, forensics backs up their stories, and the guy confessed to the police. That’s his crime, you understand? No child molestation charges and no reports of it. There’s no proof he’s a pedophile, none. Do you understand, Joe?”

Joe nodded, knowing better than to argue with Andy, but also deep down pleased that his doubts about Nicky’s  _ reputation _ were being backed up. 

“But the thing is, Joe, there’s another case at work here. A bigger one. And we may need Mr. diGenova in a big way. To give us names and testimony.”

“Bigger case?”

“I can’t tell you much right now. It’s an ongoing investigation. All of this...it’s sensitive information and we need time to gather more. We can’t risk spooking anyone lest they draw in their ranks. But I need diGenova which means I need him to stay alive. And I get that his killing of a local,  _ Mexican _ priest, not to mention the speculation from the press of him being a child molestor, is painting a huge target on his back on the inside.”

_ No shit _ .

“I’ve tried petitioning to get him moved to a different facility, but no judge is having it. His case was too high profile and sensationalized by the media. Not to mention the delicate racial politics of it -- it’s an election year after all. But I need the guy to stay alive, Yusuf. So my last resort was to contact Copley. He offered protective custody, which isn’t a great solution though it would at least keep him alive, but it has to be approved by the warden who apparently is an unreasonable asshole.”

“Your charms didn’t work on him?” Joe cocked a grin at Andy, wishing that he could watch Andy take on that little shit-stain, Warden Merrick. He was a small, snively-faced man who on his rare occasions he was at the prison walked around like some kind of condescending tyrant-king.

_ She’d eat him alive. _

“Asshole won’t even take my call. Just keeps directing me to Copley.” Andy set her jaw tight, and Joe knew that if Merrick suddenly walked into the room right now, he would be a dead man. “Guess he can’t be bothered to do his damn job. And while Copley assures me he works to keep all his inmates alive and safe, you and I both know a place like this doesn’t care about one man’s good intentions. Which leaves me with no other option than to reach out and try to appeal to my client who happens to be housed in the same facility.” She eyed him intently.

“So you’re hoping that my fondness for you will extend to risking my neck for some priest just so you can build a stronger case?” He laughed, shaking his head. “This is a terrible sale, Andy. What’s my incentive here?”

“Me still being your lawyer when you’ve been such a difficult and ungrateful client. Parole’s coming up next year. Could pull some favors with my old law firm to really get you a crack defense team, legal expenses covered. My resources at Legal Aid are limited.”

“You assume I give a shit about my parole,” Joe shot back. “Besides, like I said during my original trial, I ain’t giving up names for a lighter sentence. Honor amongst thieves and all that. I ain’t a snitch. Also, maybe this is exactly where I belong Andy.” He looked around the room meaningfully. “This place suits me just fine.”

Andy rolled her eyes, sighing exasperatedly. “Cut the shit. You’ve got a chance for a life outside of here, Yusuf. You could get parole. You’re not a bad guy despite your brash attempts to prove otherwise. And for god’s sake, you have a family waiting on the outside for you. Yazmin, she--,”

“Don’t talk about my sister!” Joe snapped, knowing that sooner or later Andy would pull at that string to get a reaction out of him. “Don’t even say her name here.” Joe hated the idea of any trace of her being here. He hated the way the other inmates stared at her when she came to visit, teasing Joe later about what she looked like under her  _ hijab _ . Joe had gotten thrown into seg quite often for making sure no one dared to talk about his sister ever again. After a while, he had taken her off his visitor list, finding it better for her to stay away all together. 

The guard lurched forward, ready to haul Joe away, but Andy held her hand out to stop him. A death glare from Andy sent him retreating.

“Don’t you even want to know how she’s doing? Her and the boys? She sent a package for you--,” Andy said while opening up her briefcase, a loosely wrapped bundle tied with a simple string. It was crinkled and the bow lopsided, most likely from the prison search of the present to make sure it didn’t contain contraband. 

“I don’t want it,” Joe spat out, looking away from Andy and the bundle. He could hear Andy’s frustrated sigh.

“Look, Yusuf, I know this is hard to explain since I can’t give much detail. But I know you’re a good man, deep down, and you care about your family and you care about innocent children.”

Joe’s eyes slide back over to meet Andy’s.  _ Innocent children? _

“Father Perez was killed by diGenova, no one is disputing that. But why?” Andy dropped her voice lower, making her best attempt at making sure her words were only for Joe. 

“See, he didn’t give a reason at trial. And no one could provide that answer. Perez was beloved but diGenova was also well liked by his colleagues and parishioners. So, what happened? Well, there’s been rumors about a local priest who maybe was abusing children, who had done it elsewhere before being shuffled to the Los Angeles area. And maybe that’s why diGenova killed Perez. Maybe Perez was that priest, or he knew about it.”

“So, you’re thinking Nic--diGenova killed the other priest for being a pedo?”

_ So, then he’s not that way… _ He fought a smile that wanted to break out. 

“It’s our best theory, but some things just don't add up about it. If Perez was abusing children, why didn’t he use that at his trial as part of his defense? His lawyer couldn’t get him to give any reason for why he did what he did other than he was angry. The other odd thing is Perez was shot, diGenova had the gun that was used to shoot him,  _ but  _ his hands didn’t have any gunpowder residue on them. He beat the man, yes, multiple people witnessed that, but he couldn’t have shot him. Which means...there was someone else there that night, someone he is protecting. I want to know who and why.”

“And why do you care?”

Andy sighed. “Maybe diGenova killed Perez because he was the one abusing children, but no one is coming forward to confirm that so right now its just a guess. Or maybe diGenova killed Perez to protect someone, maybe the person who shot Perez. Maybe that person is a victim or maybe that person is the abuser. I don’t know, I can’t confirm anything because no one is talking. They are all just theories. But what I do strongly suspect is that diGenova has the names of potential victims. I need those names, Yusuf. For our case, but also if those kids have been abused, they need counseling and help. They can’t bear that trauma on their own. That’s why we need diGenova--he’s the only lead we have.” She sighed. “And it’s why I’m asking you to watch out for him, make sure he stays alive. This kind of place...he won’t survive here. He’s young, and he’s scared.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Joe asked, trying to process all of what Andy was saying, his mind racing to try to make a decision over whether or not to care about Nicky. The situation felt even more muddled now. 

“We got a new hot shot lawyer coming in to handle this case, Nile Freeman -- Achilles’s niece. Howard University undergrad, Stanford Law for graduate. She turned down some high paying jobs with big firms just so she can come fight the good fight for the underprivileged and unjustly accused like her uncle. She’s just like her Uncle Achilles -- no bullshit, takes charge, and gets results.”

Andy smiled fondly. “She’s come to work at Legal Aid, setting her sights on bringing a large scale case against the archdiocese for shuffling around priests who are known abusers. Already has a case going up north in the Bay Area, hoping to connect the two and go after even bigger fish. And she says the lynchpin for the Los Angeles case lies with diGenova. He can provide names, and possibly who the real abuser priest is or was, whether it was Perez, the one who shot him, or someone else entirely. So, yeah, Yusuf, I’m asking for a favor, a huge one I know, but you’re the only guy I know here at Old Guard who is deep down a good man, who would care about children who’ve been abused and might still be being victimized if the abuser is still out there.

“So, please, Yusuf, can you help me keep diGenova safe?”

Joe leaned back, his deep brown eyes never leaving Andy’s intense blue ones. He had never seen Andy like this. Joe liked her for her brassiness and take-no-shit attitude, especially when it came to him, but now she appeared as he had never seen her before: vulnerable and pleading. This case meant a lot to her, as all her noble causes did. It was what drew her and Achilles together, what drove her in life, especially now that he was gone -- a constant need to fight for a better world no matter how seemingly impossible the task. And now she needed Yusuf’s help to fight her next great cause.

_ Maybe Nicky did what he did to protect innocents. Or maybe he did it to protect himself or a different monster. You don’t really know the guy... but you’d like to, wouldn’t you? _

“No,” Joe said, resolutely and without emotion. 

“No?” Andy repeated back at him, taken aback.

He meant no cruelty or malice by it, but no matter how noble the cause, it was Andy’s and not his. Joe didn’t want a cause in life because as far as he was concerned, there was no life for him outside these walls. He had stopped taking Yazmin’s and Andy’s visits for a reason. He simply wanted to be forgotten by them and disappear inside here. 

A cause was for men who had life to live. Joe had squandered all his opportunities in life-- there were none left. Even if he got parole and got out, what awaited him except more crime and hustles that would land him back here? Only more hurt for Yazmin and her boys. They shouldn’t be tied to him, a sinking ship drowning in the dire circumstances he had willing sailed into.

“No,” he said again, sighing. “It’s not my fight or my business. I’m not gonna waste my time watching after some guy who maybe was doing a noble thing or maybe was doing a selfish thing. He means nothing to me, and I want it to stay that way.” 

Joe stood up, getting ready to leave, ignoring Andy’s scowl. He knew she was more disappointed than angry at him, a common theme among their time as attorney and client.

“And that’s it?” she asked with disgust. “Just no?”

“I wish you luck on your case. You’re always fighting for a good cause, Andy. I’m just not one of those. There’s nothing worth saving. I got a stable thing going here, and I’m not risking that. The guy might be just fine on his own anyway, so I hope you do manage to get what you need from him eventually. But if he gets shanked in here and turns out he was protecting a piece of shit pedo priest or is one himself after all, then it’s what he deserves.”

“He isn’t one!” Andy snapped, smacking her fist down hard on the table. It drew the attention of the guard, though he hesitated from warning Andy.

Stunned into silence, the room briefly turned all eyes on a fuming Andy and an apathetic Joe. Unable to bear her gaze anymore, Joe turned to leave, signalling the guard that he was done with his visit. Coming forward to lead him away, they both stopped at Andy’s voice.

“You forgot her gift.” Joe turned to his head to see Andy standing, brown parcel in hand held out to Joe. “I know you don’t want it and all that because of your bullshit honor code of thinking your life means nothing, but it’ll make her feel like shit if I bring it back to her. The least you can do, Yusuf, is take it. What you do with it afterwards, I don’t care. But at least don’t make me bring it back to her. She doesn’t deserve that.”

Joe chewed the inside of his cheek.  _ Damn, Andy does know how to argue _ . He turned back and reached for the brown parcel, his fingers shaking a little to be touching a gift from his beloved little sister. He wanted to shove the present away but also clutch it to his chest, relive fond memories like when they were kids huddled under a blanket when the furnace in their dingy apartment wouldn’t turn on in winter. 

“Thanks, Andy,” Joe ground out, taking a hold of the gift but finding Andy still clutching it, preventing him from pulling away.

“Be a piece of shit all you want Yusuf, but at the end of the day, I know that you are a good man.” Andy let go of the bundle then, Joe feeling his arm jolt, marveling at her strength. “No matter how much you try to prove otherwise.”


	7. A Devil's Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky gets a visitor in the SHU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some non-consensual candy feeding. It's exactly what it sounds like. And I am also surprised I reached a point in life where I formed that into a sentence.  
> Short chapter I think. I am probably not going to stick to that original 30 chapter plan....

Nicky wondered if he was losing his mind inside the Segregated Housing Unit (SHU for short, also known as seg or the hole). It wasn’t just that the bare, solid four walls made him lose all sense of time or that the quiet was slowly turning into the static of being able to hear his own heartbeat. No, it was more to do with the fact that Nicky found the place somewhat peaceful and not quite the punishment it was meant to be.

Perhaps it was his training as a priest or his deep belief that he was in need of punishment and penance. But the cold floor for him to kneel on as he said his prayers was oddly familiar, the sharp ache in his knees from kneeling for hours a balm to his guilty soul. Or maybe it had only been minutes? Maybe days?

_No...I think it’s been two days…._ It was his best guess as the only way to keep track was the meals given, three a day at the same time, slide through a slot at the base of the large steel red door. He had had about seven meals now. _So it must be day three…._

After starting the brawl in the mess hall, Nicky had been unceremoniously dumped in this cell. No word from the C.O.’s as to how long he would be here. He tried asking when the tray of food was first slid in, but no response came to any of his questions. Answers didn’t come for the others who screamed and wailed in their own individual cells next door either. That perhaps was the worst part of being here, the shouting and muttering of those around him who could not find peace in their solitary. Only madness.

_Not that you are above your own madness_ , he reasoned. After all, what had possessed him to start the brawl in the mess hall to begin with? _Surely that’s not what Joe meant when he said to not back down. Or maybe it is. Would Joe be proud of me?_ Nicky didn’t understand why his thoughts kept drifting to Joe. 

_We’re not friends_ , he reminded himself. _He would never want to be my friend anyway. I am disgusting. If he knew how you thought of him…._ He had only known the man for a day and yet Nicky felt his eyes hunger for his broad back and narrow waist as they showered together on that second day. He wondered how Joe’s chest would feel pressed to his cheek, how the hair would feel against his skin. His mind slipped back to Joe under the stream of water, dripping down towards his thick, soft cock. 

_I need to pray_.

Nicky returned to his knees again, making the sign of the cross and tried to keep his thoughts salient and far from his lust.

“Keep your promise,” he muttered to himself. But even without the thoughts of Joe, his mind still wandered restlessly. Perhaps it was the quiet that made it so difficult to concentrate. Because if it wasn’t the sinful thoughts of his new cellmate, it was the loud terror of that fateful Christmas Eve. The shouting, the guns shot, the sharp ringing in his ears as he tried to make a plan. There had been time to reverse it all, make right. But then the man had started to run, and Nicky decided right then and there that he couldn’t let him live. 

When Nicky came back to himself, he found himself curled up on the floor. He didn’t remember when he changed position from kneeling to that. A dull throbbing in his head suggested maybe he’d fallen over, before curling in on himself. His breathing was shallow and stuttering, a cold sweat embracing him. He hugged himself, trying to will himself to find calm again. 

He had almost soothed himself completely, nearly falling asleep, when he heard the loud sound of the lock in the cell door twisting open. He shot up into a sitting position, backing away from the door until his back hit the wall.

With wide, startled eyes, he stared up at the man entering, well groomed as always, with his tray of food -- lunch perhaps? -- clutched in one hand. 

“Hello there,” C.O. Keane said with a genial smile, before shutting the large steel door behind him. The sound of it made Nicky flinch again. He wondered: was Keane trapped inside with him or was Nicky trapped inside with Keane? He swallowed hard, knowing the answer. 

Keane was a large man, his tank of a body filling up a good chunk of the small six foot by six foot cell. Nicky felt dwarfed by his presence as he sat on the floor with Keane looming above him.

The man smiled down at him, as if they were friends, but Nicky did not like what he sensed behind that smile. Staring at it, Nicky could feel again his finger twisting inside him like a worm. He shuddered.

“No need to be nervous,” he said calmingly, setting the tray of food down on the ground next to him, crouching down to bring himself closer into Nicky’s space. “Just thought I’d come bring in your meal since I’m on duty tonight. See how you’re doing. See if you’re ready to come back to genpop yet.” 

He inclined his head, studying Nicky. He crouched down, setting the tray on the floor before reaching out a finger to brush underneath Nicky’s left eye. Nicky flinched at the contact but had nowhere to go to get away.

“You got such dark circles. Must not be sleeping well. Hard to in here.” He peered over at the tray of food -- some bread, a hard boiled egg, and more mushy pieces of canned fruit. “And the food’s shit too. No wonder you didn’t eat much of your other meals.”

Nicky felt his body freeze at that detail, his eyes flitting from the tray of food up to Keane’s deepening gaze, his pupils narrowed like a hunter targeting its prey. It was true, he hadn’t had much appetite since being in here, always pushing the tray back with most of the food uneaten. He didn’t know how the guards’ shifts worked in here, if Keane had been outside the whole time or getting reports specifically on him. Either way, it was unsettling.

“Bet you’re hungry, huh?” He licked his lower lip as his eyes trailed over Nicky. Nicky drew his legs in towards himself, trying to keep any and all part of him away from Keane. But with so little space inside this shoe box of a room, there was not much room for him to retreat into. Keane had him trapped, he knew it, and Nicky could see in his eyes how he took pleasure in it.

“I could give you a treat.” He held Nicky’s gaze, his overly sweet grin still plastered on his face as he reached into his back pocket. “Don’t tell anyone. Can be our secret.” Nicky almost flinched when he brought his hand back, expecting a weapon from when the guards dropped him in this cell. His hands had been bound and yet still they had given him a few hard whacks with their batons before uncuffing him. But all Keane had in his hand was a full sized Kit Kat in its shiny red wrapper. 

Nicky eyed it warily. He was afraid to take it but also afraid to refuse it. 

“Go on,” Keane said softly, like a kind soul trying to tame a cornered animal. “Take it. Enjoy it.” Nicky stared at it, tempted by the promise of the sweetness of the candy, a temporary pleasure to alleviate the misery of his current surroundings. But he also knew it was not the gift it appeared to be.

Keane chuckled. “I get it. You think I’m trying to trick you into getting into trouble for having contraband. But no, you can trust me. Watch.” He took the candy and ripped open the wrapper, the crinkling sound too loud for Nicky in this quiet place. None of the other prisoners seemed up to making any ruckus at this hour. Nicky almost missed their cursing and screaming to be let out. Without it, he felt utterly and sharply alone with Keane.

With the wrapper peeled back, Keane’s thick fingers came up to the chocolate wafers, breaking off a small piece from the corner. He held it out to Nicky, almost like holding out a treat to a cornered animal. 

“Go on,” he urged him. Nicky stared at it, his eyes regarding it like he held a viper in his hand.

“No, thank you,” Nicky whispered, casting his eyes down. He didn’t want to see how Keane’s face changed as he uttered his first refusal.

“C’mon,” he cooed. “It’s okay. You’ll like it.” He could sense the proximity of Keane’s fingers holding the piece of candy in front of his face, inching closer. 

“No,” Nicky ground out, finding his voice. “I don’t want it.” He could almost feel the shift in the air, sensing the sweet, warm smile Keane had come in with withering. Nicky turned his face away, asserting his refusal.

“You’re being very rude.” Keane’s voice sounded flat. Neither sweet nor angry. 

“No, thank you,” Nicky repeated. A beat of silence passed between them, painfully weighing down Nicky’s chest. 

“Just try it,” Keane commanded, his voice hardening. Nicky said nothing, prompting him to snap, “Open your mouth.” Nicky felt a shudder rip through him, bringing him back to their first meeting, when he explored Nicky’s mouth, and then clawed his way inside him.

In his peripheral, he could sense the way Keane suddenly shifted, placing down the Kit Kat, freeing his hand to clutch Nicky’s face between his thick fingers. He twisted his face back to face him, forcing Nicky to meet his eyes, blown wide with anger and something else that unsettled Nicky. His other hand brought the small bit he had broken off to his lips, pressing it against them, the sweet sugary smell of it wafting up into his nose. 

Nicky felt pinned in place despite all his extremities unbound and free. He could push him away or kick him, but the weight of Keane’s authority over him kept him still. 

“Eat it,” Keane commanded, a frown creasing his features into an ugly visage Nicky hated. “Or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

Shaking, Nicky parted his lips ever so slightly, his eyes still locked with Keane’s. His fingers holding the small bit of candy darted into the opening, forcing his mouth open more than he wanted, depositing the sweet treat on his tongue. His fingers didn’t linger, like he knew Nicky might bite him.

Nicky snapped his mouth shut, wishing he had.

“Good boy,” Keane purred, letting go of Nicky’s face. But his fingers didn’t retreat, staying to stroke his cheek tenderly, feeling the coarse hairs that had begun to sprout there from being locked away in solitary. “Kinda dirty, aren’t you? Bet you’d like to get out of here and get a shower.” 

Nicky held the piece of candy on his tongue, refusing to chew, tasting the chemical sweetness of it as it began to melt. He could feel the saliva collect in his mouth as he held still, his body craving the taste.

“Could get you out of here early,” Keane said softly, his warm tone and smile returning. His fingers continued to stroke Nicky’s cheek. “I’m a nice guy. See, I brought you a treat. And I could end your stay in seg early for good behavior. You think you could do that for me? Be a good boy?” He licked his lips. “I reward good boys.”

Nicky felt his stomach churn, sickened by the sweetness on his tongue and the man hovering above him caressing his face. Keane’s thumb ghosted over Nicky’s plush lips, his eyes narrowing to focus on them. 

“You could be my good boy, Nicolò. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I could make sure no one touches you in here. Because a lotta guys really want to beat the shit out of you or fuck you ‘til you bleed. You don’t have anything to barter with in here besides this,” he said with a swipe across his lips, “and the pussy between your legs. But you be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. Won’t have to worry about anyone else. We can have little meetings like this in the SHU. I give you a treat, and you give me one. How does that sound?”

Nicky’s breathing came hard and fast then, feeling the rage and disgust build up in him. For this man to abuse his power like this, to barter favors that were born out of their inherent power imbalance, it was too familiar. Keane reminded him now of Perez.

“How about,” Keane began as he drew his hand away to reach for his belt, “you show me just how grateful you can be right now.”

With the same madness that Nicky seemed to be plagued with as of late, Nicky drew a deep breath in, peering up at Keane before he could pull away to stand, spitting the melted piece of candy straight into his face. The glob of it with the added phlegm he had summoned landed square on Keane’s cheek, drawing an instant scowl from the man. It oozed down his cheek, a revolting yet satisfying sight for Nicky.

“You stupid little bitch!” Keane snapped, standing up. He wiped at his face, trying to rid himself of the offending glob. With adrenaline coursing through him, Nicky got to his feet, pressing himself against the wall to get as far from Keane as he could, awaiting Keane’s retaliation.

He glared at Nicky, breathing hard now as his own fury consumed him. Nicky met his glare with his own intense challenge.

“I’m not your good anything!” Nicky seethed. 

Keane’s face flushed with anger. His body seemed even bigger now as he drew himself up and squared his shoulders, his muscles threatened to burst through his prison issued uniform. He reached down, pulling his baton from his belt. 

“You’re gonna regret that,” he growled at Nicky, bringing his baton up. Nicky tried bringing his arm up to deflect the blow as the baton came raging down on him, but the force of that first blow knocked his arm away with a sharp pain that reverberated through his bones. He cried out in pain, the sounds of their fight now drawing the other inmates around them back to life. They began howling like animals who’d caught the scent of blood.

“You fuckin’ bitch,” Keane shouted as he delivered another blow, this time catching Nicky right in his face. The cruel smack of the baton cracked on his head, sending a wave of pain bursting through him, his vision blurred by spots. He could feel the trickle of blood trail down from his hairline to his forehead. Another two blows came to compliment the others, knocking Nicky to the ground. 

Keane came after him still as Nicky tried curling up and covering his head. Now the blows landed on his arms, his hip and his legs. Keane seemed determined to pulverize Nicky into nothing. A part of Nicky hoped he would.

_Deliver us lord from our sins_ , he recited to himself. _Deliver me from mine…_

“Hey, hey, hey!” came a voice from outside. Somewhere in the distance, Nicky could hear the sound of the large steel door being unlocked and swung open. Boots of another officer came barging in, and Nicky worried for a moment that another C.O. was coming to offer him candy too. 

“Booker! Get out of here, I’m handling it,” Keane barked at the newcomer. His breath was labored, his blood still raging and far from done with Nicky. 

Nicky could feel the pain all over his body as a dull, farway ache, his head still reeling from the blows, making him hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. 

“Yeah, I can see you’re handling it. I think you’ve _handled_ it, Keane. He’s down, he’s done. What the hell was he doing? Why were you locked in here?”

Keane stared down at Nicky who stared back at him with one eye through the shield of his arms protecting his head. His expression dared Nicky to say something.

“He was mouthing off about the food. Came in to tell him to shut up and he spit at me.” Keane turned around to face Booker now. “Can’t let them show that kind of disrespect. But thanks for having my back, Booker.” He plastered on his best smile, bright white teeth on display. “You can go now.”

Booker furrowed his brows at Keane, hesitating. His eyes flicked between him and where Nicky was curled up on the ground. Tentatively, Nicky lifted himself up on his arms, staring into Booker’s face with his bruising and bloodied face.

“I should take him to see the doc,” Booker muttered staring at Nicky. The blood was still dripping down his face, some smeared on his cheek. Reddish and purple beginning to bloom underneath his skin where the blows had landed.

“He’s fine,” Keane said with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it Booker. I’ll take care of him.” 

Nicky felt his body begin to shake with those words. He wasn’t afraid of Keane killing him. No, that would be the easy way out. That wouldn’t satisfy a man like Keane. 

“No, Keane, man, he’s bleeding pretty badly--”

“I said I’ll handle it,” Keane snapped back, trying to assert his authority. Nicky could see how tightly wound he was, waiting eagerly for the blond man to leave, so he could finish with Nicky. 

Booker hesitated, swallowing hard. “No, Keane, don’t worry about it,” he said with a friendly smile. “You’re on shift, you can’t leave. I’ll take him to see the doc, get stitched up.” Without waiting for Keane’s reply, he stepped past him, leaning down to help Nicky up. “Wouldn’t want anyone gettin’ written up, you know? Don’t worry about it, man. Like you said, I got your back.” Booker’s nervous eyes looked at Keane who stood between them and the door. 

Nicky could feel the tremor in his limbs as the pain was catching up to his brain now, despite the throbbing that made all his senses foggy. The faint smell of sharp mint emanating from C.O. Booker made Nicky sick to his stomach, and his head swam trying to keep from vomiting.

_Bet Keane would love that...._ Nicky almost cracked a smile.

Keane glared at them, his eyes intent on Booker, before finally breaking into a calm, casual smile. He slid his baton back into his belt and stepped out of the way.

“Thanks, Booker, for watching out for me.” Keane patted Booker on the back as he passed. “You’re a good friend. Just make sure once he’s patched up, you bring him back. His stay isn’t over here yet.” Keane stayed in the room, waiting, his boot positioned strategically to hide the rest of the open kit kat candy lying on the floor.

“Yeah, sure, no problem boss,” Booker replied with a friendly grin. Nudging him along, Booker escorted Nicky away by the arm, helping him to keep upright. They exchanged a look between them. Nicky wanted to say so much and yet didn’t know if he could. Most of all he wanted to thank this C.O. Booker. 

Despite no words spoken between them as they headed out, Booker nodded his head at Nicky, as if to say, “You’re welcome.”


	8. All These Bothersome Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky meets Quynh and Joe angsts about God and Nicky. Warning for some religious angsting. Thanks to my discord wife Kara for answering all my questions about muslim practices and angsting with me over faith despite our different backgrounds.

Nicky struggled to hold in the groan he yearned to let out as the deft and nimble fingers of the stunning Asian woman seated before him worked diligently to stitch close the wound on his head. There was nothing intimate about the action or his proximity to the dark-haired woman, though she was indeed beautiful with lovely brown eyes, full rosy tinted lips, and flawless tan skin. But the feeling of her hands on him since he had arrived at the infirmary was gentle and careful, and he realized it had been quite some time since he had been touched by another person with such kindness.

It was oddly soothing, Nicky closing his eyes from time to time just to relish the soft touches, even when it included the needle she used now to stitch close the gash hidden in his hairline. When he did, he could almost picture being a child again, happy and at home with his mother. Young, innocent, and free. There were no bars, no angry beatings, no monstrous men trying to claw at him, and no sins weighing down his soul.

“You feeling sleepy?” came the calm, soft voice of the woman in front of him. Nicky popped his eyes open, a little embarrassed and worried he might have even moaned. But the face in front of him was ready with a smile.

“It’s okay if you are,” she continued, her eyes focused on her delicate work. “Hit like this to the head, can kind of make you out of it. Though maybe I should check your pupils again in case you have a concussion after all. Wouldn’t advise you falling asleep then. But, I’ll be finished soon, Nicolò.” 

“Thank you,” he started, his voice scratchy from how tired he suddenly seemed to be. She introduced herself as Dr. Quynh Tran, insisting on being called Dr. Quynh due to an inside joke amongst the prison staff, when she led Nicky to a medical bed to sit at while she gathered supplies to clean him up. 

“Nothing to it,” she said matter of factly. “It’s my job after all. But no matter who you are in life, everyone deserves care when they need it.” Her eyes flicked to his, searching for something. “Though you don’t look like the type to inspire this kind of beating from the C.O.’s. Not to make assumptions, but after working here for as long as I have, I know the C.O.’s here can have short tempers. Almost impossible to give men power over others without that dynamic coming into play, no matter the justification.”

“No,” Nicky mumbled without thinking. “I deserve it. I deserve all of it.”

He could feel Dr. Quynh’s hand still on his scalp for just a moment. He wondered if he should take the words back, but he knew he’d meant them. Her eyes lingered on him, and he suspected what he saw reflected back in her solid brown ones was pity.

“Not a lot of men say that to me,” she said with a cough to clear her throat as her fingers resumed. “Usually it’s declarations of innocence.”

She leaned back, snapping off her nitrile gloves, the sound of which did make Nicky jump. “All done with that. Try not to scratch at them, though they will begin to itch like hell soon enough. But that means it’s healing. I’ll set up another appointment for you to come here so I can take them out.”

She rolled back in her chair to the small metal tray where she laid out her tools for treating and cleaning Nicky’s wound, picking up a clipboard, filling the room with the sound of her furious scribbling. 

“Am I....done?” Nicky asked, feeling himself grow nervous at the sudden realization that soon he would have to return to the small, isolated cell with only a bucket to piss in and a hard, cold slab to sleep on. But he knew what made him most hesitant was the guard ready to reopen his stitches.

Dr. Quynh peered up from her chart to look at him, furrowing her brows in thought. 

“Well, I’d like to check for a concussion again.” She placed down her paperwork and picked up her ophthalmoscope to gaze into each of Nicky’s eyes with. “Look straight at me,” she gently ordered, examining him. “Do you have any other aches or pains besides the bruises I’ve already seen?”

“No,” he mumbled, trying to keep his eyes from shutting against the light she had aimed at his eye on her little tool. He knew he was supposed to stare straight ahead, but the light made him dizzy and his eyes wandered to find an anchor. He traveled down the soft curve of her cheek, down to her soft, vulnerable neck, finding of interest a dark braided leather cord peeking out from her white coat and collar of her medical scrubs. 

His eyes traveled lower, following the path of the leather cord to a sliver of silver nestled just below the hem of her scrubs. He wondered if it being on a leather cord made it less flashy an item of jewelry. He had seen that Dr. Quynh had holes in her ears for earrings, but they were empty as expected and her face devoid of any makeup, though it mattered little in light of her natural beauty.

She broke through his thoughts as she said, “I didn’t really expect you of all people to be staring down my scrubs.”

Nicky blinked hard, snapping his head back, ashamed like a child caught in the middle of mischief. He stammered, “Um, no, t-that’s, I’m sorry, no, I wasn’t--”

Dr. Quynh laughed. “It’s alright. I’m kind of numb to it at this point here. Just you being a priest, I didn’t expect it. I mean, working here, most of my patients are either trying to hit on me, get narcotics from me, or just stonewall me to act the silent, tough type. It’s never a dull job here.”

“No, I was, um, I was looking at your necklace,” Nicky explained himself, blushing from embarrassment. It wouldn’t be unheard of for a man to stare at Dr. Quynh like she believed he was, but Nicky was innocent in this matter, even if he was guilty in all others. “I was just surprised. Since I didn’t think jewelry was allowed. I never see any of the female C.O.s with any. Or makeup. Or nail polish,” he rambled.

Dr. Quynh placed her instrument down on the metal tray beside her, leaning back to regard Nicky, trying not to assess his health as a patient but his character as a man.

“Strangely, I believe you,” she replied, reaching in her scrubs to pull her necklace out for him to see fully -- a silver teardrop shaped pendant with metal wired designs twisted on its frame, hanging like a little treasure on the leather cord. “You’re right -- no jewelry allowed here. Might be stolen, work the inmates up, used as a weapon -- all good reasons, but I kind of cheat and wear it anyways. Copley lets me get away with it. It’s all I have left of my mother, so I never take it off.” Her smile was wistful. 

Somehow, that little fact warmed Nicky’s heart a bit, spreading from his chest to help soothe the ache of his bruises. It made him think of his own mother, how much he missed her, and how much he wished he had something physical of hers to hold close to him now in this dark, cold place.

“Then you should always keep it. Perhaps it protects you.” He cocked a soft, half smile at her as Dr. Quynh placed the pendant back under the collar of her scrubs.

“Look at me rambling. Was that something they taught you when becoming a priest: getting people to pour their heart out to you so easily?”

Nicky’s face froze, his smile slowly fading. 

_ All the time people came to me. Trusted me. Confessed and confided. I thought I was helping, doing God’s work, but when it mattered most….when it mattered most I betrayed that trust. No, no one should open to me. I failed. I failed so terribly _ , he lamented. He wanted to say it outloud to Dr. Quynh but couldn’t bring himself to admit the one thing he regretted most in his life. The thing he would be justly punished for in here.

“Nicolò?” Dr. Quynh leaned forward into his personal space, a worried frown disrupting the serene picture of her features. “Are you okay? Where did you go?”

Nicky snapped back to himself, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I haven’t slept well the past couple of days. I suppose that’s natural considering….” He was put in the SHU, after starting a loud and rather public fight. It amazed him how calm Dr. Quynh seemed to be around him considering for all she knew, he was a violent, mad man. How could someone so lovely and kind as her deign to work here? 

“Yes,” she agreed as if hearing his thoughts. “The conditions of the SHU are….terrible to say the least.” Her frown deeped. “I’m not here to determine the punishment of the men housed here, but regardless, being put in there is inhumane. Solitary is a cruel and unusual punishment in my opinion -- I can’t tell you how many inmates I have to treat after their stays there. Dr. Kozak too, though she disagrees with me about the necessity of such a punishment.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “And that’s to say nothing of the guards and their…” Her eyes flicked over him, to the stitches hidden in his hair to the bruises on his face and arm. “...overzealous use of force.”

Nicky’s eyes widened at Dr. Quynh’s brazenness in openly criticising the guards and the conditions at the prison. He wondered if as a doctor she occupied a unique position of power to so openly complain, especially to an inmate convicted of murder.

“You’re shocked I’m so open about my feelings,” she guessed correctly, and Nicky worried she might really be able to read his mind. “I’m not afraid of upper management -- they are grateful I work here for the pay I do, especially Copley. What can I say? I like it here, and I feel I can do some good here. But that’s not going to prevent me from speaking about what could be better here. And in all prisons. Helps that Copley will go to bat for me against the Warden. But he’s barely here any way to do his job, so I’m certainly not going to give two fucks about his rich-boy-attitude.” She snapped her hand to her mouth, chuckling. 

“There I go again. Seriously, is this a power of yours?”

Nicky couldn’t help but smile, ignoring his cloud of self-doubt and dark thoughts.

A knock on the door to the infirmary drew their attention away from one another. The steel door with its reinforced plexiglass window cracked open to reveal the gloomy face of C.O. Booker. He coughed before speaking, as if ashamed to be interrupting like Nicky and Dr. Quynh were old friends visiting instead of a doctor treating an incarcerated man convicted of a violent crime.

“Hey Quynh,” he started. “Is diGenova, he all patched up? Keane….” He looked at Nicky guiltily. “He’s pretty insistent about getting him back into the hole. Says he shouldn’t be left alone with you this long.” Booker sighed, knowing everything he repeated from Keane was nonsense. 

“Oh, is he?” Quynh looked between the two men, weighing something in her mind.

Booker shrugged, appearing defeated. “You know Keane,” Booker lamented. 

Nicky looked down at his feet, unable to bear the weight of their gazes on him. He could feel their immense pity, and it made him feel pathetic. He breathed deep, steeling himself to return and face off against Keane and whatever punishment he had planned. When he peered up, ready to stand and leave with C.O. Booker, he found himself pinned to his chair by Quynh’s gaze.

“You know what, Booker?” She turned in her chair to face the tall, blond man. “I’m afraid he’s got a concussion and I’ll need to observe him over night. Maybe longer if his condition doesn’t approve.”

Booker cracked a smile. “Oh really? That serious, huh?”

“Very,” Quynh replied with her own satisfied smile. “If Keane’s upset about it, he can get  _ his _ medical degree and come talk to me.”

Nicky felt himself shake with disbelief and relief.  _ Is she doing this on purpose? _ He wondered. He could feel his breath coming out short and ragged, and he did all he could to try to quell the growing panic attack.

He felt a gentle hand rest against his shoulder.

“Breath, Nicolò,” Quynh’s voice sang to him. “Breath deep, in and out. Good, yes, just like that.” After a few moments, Nicky felt his pulse slow and his heartbeat steady. 

“See, Booker,” Quynh said somewhere far away from Nicky although he knew she was still right beside him. “He needs to stay.”

“How long?” Booker asked, amusement at the edge of his voice.

“However long I deem necessary.”

Booker chuckled. “You got it, doc.”

  
  


Joe kicked his blanket off, letting the shock of the cold night air raise gooseflesh along his exposed arms and legs. It was still lights-out though close enough to the first wake up call, with only the sound of the night guard on duty pacing around somewhere in the distance to fill the silence. But when he closed his eyes and listened intently, he could hear others stirring as they usually did at this hour between dawn and sunrise.

_ Fajr, _ Joe reminded himself.  _ 5:39 A.M., nine minutes after wake up call.  _ Though Joe hadn’t prayed in a long time, he couldn’t help but keep track of the times throughout the days when he knew the others would be praying. They had the option to perform the prayers in their cells, but most preferred to wait for the lights to come up and the cells to open so they could gather together and face Mecca as one.  _ Also so they don’t have to pray so close to the shitter. Mm, reminds me, I gotta piss. _

Joe slid down from his bunk, taking a moment to crack his spine and stretch out his cramped and weary limbs. As he headed towards the steel toilet, Joe took a moment to glance down towards Nicky’s bed, finding him still bundled in his blanket, back to Joe, facing the wall. He wondered if he was awake, or was still out cold.

Nicky had returned the day before, looking worse for wear. He had several days worth of scruff on his face and a few new purpled bruises on his cheek and forehead that looked fresher than what he would’ve received from his little tussle with the Aryans almost a week before. When he walked past Joe without a word upon returning, he couldn’t help but catch sight of something off in his hair. 

_ A cut? Stitches? How did he get those? _ Joe wondered, but deep down he already knew. Joe was no stranger to the hospitality offered in the SHU. And by how Nicky dropped into bed, sleeping away the rest of the day, waking only for roll calls and daily count checks, Joe knew Nicky had not enjoyed his stay. The skin under his eyes, more grey and dulled today than before, was darker and bruised looking, making his pallor worse in contrast.

_ I wonder if he’ll make it to the mess hall today. He should eat. Shower too _ . Joe shook his head, turning away from Nicky to relieve himself in the toilet.  _ Stop caring so damn much, _ he scolded himself.  _ I told Andy no. And I meant it.  _

Joe wished he could chase all these bothersome thoughts away, but if he wasn’t thinking about Nicky, then he was thinking of Yasmin. As he washed his hands, his eyes wandered over the contents of his shelf, finding the bundled gift Andy had given to him sitting beside his Quran. 

_ Don’t know why I still have this.  _ Joe sighed at his own lie. Of course Joe knew why, another gift from Yasmin in those early days when he first came to this place. A gift to keep his spirits up and his hope for the future alive. Her face had been so eager and bright when she entrusted it to him.

_ “You recognize it? It was Baba’s.”  _

Joe had tried to refuse it, telling her it was too precious to be in this place, and that she should keep it safe to pass to Zaki. But Yasmin was stubborn and tougher than any other person he’d ever met in life.

_ “No, you keep it and give it to Zaki yourself. Or your own son someday. Baba would want that. And as long as you have it, Baba and Mama will watch over you. And if you really don’t want it, then you can just give it back to me when you get out.” _

Joe smiled to himself, remembering how she’d crossed her arms and refused to take their father’s Quran no matter how many times Joe threatened to leave it on the table when she left. In the end, Yasmin had stood up and left with a cocky smile on her lips, never doubting that Joe would leave the precious gift behind that now stared back at him in the present.

Now, next to it lay another of Yasmin’s little gifts that were her weapons of choice to wield against him. 

He reached out, bringing the little bundle closer, opening up the paper loosely wrapped around it to see its folded contents once more, careful to make as little sound as possible so as not to disturb Nicky.

_ A prayer rug. _ Woven simply but beautifully in shades of bluish green, brown, and burnished gold organized into a picture of an archway filled with a repeating geometric design. It reminded him of the mosques in their father’s old pictures from Tunis, and he knew that was most likely why Yasmin had picked this particular one for him.

The note inside read:

_ Dear Yusuf, I hope Andy was able to get you to take this present. You’re a stubborn idiot sometimes. I’m not going to bother lecturing you about refusing my visits and calls. But I want you to know I still love you, and so do Zaki and Sami. We pray for you everyday. And despite how angry I am with you, I still miss you and your stupid face. You better be taking care of yourself. And taking care of Baba’s Quran. I hope you’re reading it, even if you don’t believe anymore. But in the meantime, I saw this and thought of you. And knowing you, I’m sure you got rid of your rug. So here’s a new one. Because when you get out, I’m going to be there to make sure you observe salat! So you might as well start making sure I don’t have a reason to smack you over the head daily.  _

_ Love, your very irritated sister, Yaz _

_ P.S. I included a picture of me and the boys at Zaki’s tenth birthday. It was spiderman themed. Like the last three years.  _

Joe picked up the photo despite himself. He didn’t want to see their faces and be reminded of the family still out there that refused to let him disappear, but he couldn’t help himself. It always warmed his heart to see Yasmin, beaming white smile with her arms around her two boys who both appeared so much bigger than when Joe had last seen them. Bright eyes and smiles missing teeth, black curls like his own when he was their age, and both dressed like spiderman. 

The lights flicked on then, destroying his reverie as the loud voice of the guards on duty began to call for the first wake up call. The loud buzz sounded before the heavy cell doors slid open, the cacophony of noise a sharp reminder of why Joe wanted to cut Yasmin and her boys out of his life. He wanted to hide the rug and the picture, but instead found himself bundling the picture inside, clutching it to his chest.

Joe could hear the familiar footsteps of the prisoners awake at this hour who made their way out to the main floor of the fishbowl, ready to begin  _ Fajr _ . Soon the place would fill with the sounds of their prayers, somewhat of an annoyance to some of the inmates who would make their displeasure known. But the shouts and insults never interrupted the muslims as they prayed, finding a serene peace that Joe envied. He squeezed the rug in his hands and wondered maybe if he should join them today.

_ Yaz would like that. Somewhere she’d know, smile to herself. All cocky _ . Joe headed towards his open cell door, following the sounds as their prayers began. A part of him did long to join them, but he couldn’t bring himself to go. It felt like going through the motions, just a habit from his childhood that didn’t really mean anything to him. 

He wanted it to mean something, though. He wanted so badly to feel that connection like the others did, like Yasmin did. But Joe had always felt when he prayed that he was talking to no one, because there was no one there actually listening. He felt unmoored in the world, his soul and body mismatched, and unable to exist in any world but the physical one he occupied.

It felt cold and empty, but Joe didn’t know how to feel any other way. So he turned away from his open cell door, trying to ignore the sounds of their voices, and remember that there was no life or God waiting for him beyond or within these walls.

Nicky stirred then as if disturbed by his turbulent thoughts, drawing Joe out of his own head to concentrate on something new. He quickly tossed the bundled rug down beside the sink on his desk, grabbing his towel to throw on top to hide it.

Nicky sat up, scratching at his messy hair, yawning before shivering at the cold morning air as he came out of his blanket.

“Morning sleepy head,” Joe teased, unable to stop himself. “Your trip to the hole must’ve been quite a party. You slept through rec time yesterday. And all three meals.”

Nicky grunted something unintelligible back to Joe. It was almost cute.

“I’m headed to the showers soon before my shift if you want to come,” Joe offered, not sure why he was still making the overture to accompany Nicky places. He reasoned maybe he felt a little kinship with him for how Nicky had laid into the aryans instead of joining them. Another part suspected it might be because he enjoyed how he looked under the stream of water in the shower. 

_ Maybe don’t think of that too much right now,  _ Joe advised himself as he felt a wave of heat travel down his chest towards his groin.  _ Don’t go to the showers hard. _

Nicky turned to face him now and looked up at him from his bed, and Joe could see how nasty the bruises on his face looked. They were darker and bluer now, less painful for Nicky but an ugly reminder of his brawl and SHU visit. In the light, Joe could now make out the stitches peeking out from his hair. He seemed even more ragged even after his day long sleep.

“You look like shit,” Joe said without thinking. 

Nicky got out of bed, wincing for a moment from another bruise hidden under his clothes. He looked at the mirror above the sink, seeing his haggard appearance.

“I do,” Nicky agreed. His hands reached up to comb fingers through his hair before feeling the rough hair growing on his chin and jaw. He frowned at his reflection. “I need to shave.”

Unsure why, Joe grabbed one of his disposable razors and shaving cream from his shelf and offered it to Nicky. Nicky stared at him for a moment, taken aback by Joe’s helpfulness but took the offered supplies without a word and began going about shedding his SHU scruff.

Although Nicky hadn’t answered him about going to the showers, Joe waited for him. He took the opportunity to make his bed, gather his dirty prison smock and sweats for laundry, and then strip down to get ready for showering. Joe had been here long enough to not have any shame about his own nudity, but still he wondered if Nicky would take notice of him again. The thought of those eyes on him excited him.

“Ah! Sssssh,” Nicky hissed before Joe had a chance to grab his towel to cover himself. The sound of the little plastic razor dropping into the sink forced Joe to whirl around to find Nicky holding his fingers on a fresh cut along his jawline, a flash of bright red poking through. Nicky grit his teeth, more annoyed than distressed by the sudden sharp pain of the nick.

Without thinking, Joe went to Nicky, ignoring his own nudity. He turned Nicky around to face him, moving his hand away to inspect the wound. Nicky, startled by Joe’s sudden attention, let himself be maneuvered, his eyes finding Joe’s as Joe examined his cut, weeping quickly as shallow cuts do.

“You’re okay,” Joe reassured, before his eyes flicked up to meet Nicky’s. This morning they seemed bluer, and Joe marveled at how the color seemed to shift. 

_ Is that some kind of trick he can do with his eyes... _ He wanted to capture the color somehow, suddenly longing for paints and a canvas to attempt it.

Nicky swallowed nervously, and Joe could feel the tension through the small gap in the air between their bodies. Joe suddenly realized how close he was to him, his face inches from those hooded eyes and soft lips. Nicky’s face was shaved now, making him look even more innocent and young again. 

Joe couldn’t help but think how perfect his face was, even marred by bruising and the cut along his strong jawline. When Nicky let out a shaky breath, it ghosted over Joe’s lips and it made Joe want to push Nicky up against the sink and explore his mouth with his own.

“I should clean it up,” Nicky finally said, unable to break his gaze with Joe’s. 

Joe blinked once, twice, to bring himself out of his thoughts.

_ You don’t care about him. You don’t. _

“Yeah,” Joe whispered, finding himself equally unable to pull away. He reached for his towel absent-mindedly. His hands fumbled around for where he had left the towel, his mind trying its best to will himself not to lunge forward towards Nicky’s waiting, vulnerable mouth, until finally he grasped fabric and brought it to Nicky’s jaw, dabbing at the blood, his eyes now on that distinctive mole besides those lips that haunted him.

_ I should cover up _ , he reminded himself, trying not to think about how close his exposed cock was to brushing up against Nicky.

“What’s that?” Nicky asked, his eyes flicking down to the cloth Joe had pressed against his jaw. 

“What? It’s just…” Joe began to answer, his eyes following Nicky’s down to see that instead of picking up his towel, he had somehow managed to pick up Yasmin’s prayer rug, now stained with a red splotch where it pressed against Nicky’s face.

_ No, no, no, no, FUCK! _ Joe snapped himself away from Nicky, gripping the rug hard in his hands as he glared down at the small red stain that now ruined the beautiful rug his beloved sister had picked out for him. True, he hadn’t wanted it or even believed, but to soil it like this with such carelessness was a knife to Joe’s chest.

“Fuck!” Joe rushed forward to push Nicky away from the sink. He plunged the rug underneath the stream of water which ran coppery brown as he attempted to remove the offending stain. But blood is quick and lasting, and no matter how he massaged the fibers with his thumb, still a little remained to mock Joe for his lust and foolishness.

“Joe, what--,” Nicky began to ask, reaching out to touch Joe’s shoulder. The contact felt hot against his skin, and Joe recoiled away from it. 

“Don’t touch me, you fuckin’ pedo,” Joe snapped, turning to shove Nicky away.

“I’m sorry--I didn’t mean to…” Nicky trailed off, not sure what he was apologizing for, but ready to beg forgiveness anyway. Somehow that annoyed Joe even more.

“Didn’t mean to what?” Joe shouted at him, causing Nicky to flinch back. “Huh? Get your tainted blood on my rug? Come here and cause trouble everywhere you go? You...you fucking...FUCK!” 

Joe wanted to scream and rage at Nicky for how he was always in his thoughts, how suddenly everything in his life at Old Guard seemed to revolve around him, and how damned infuriating it was that no matter how much Joe tried to convince himself not to give a shit about him, Joe wanted Nicky more than he had ever wanted someone before.

But instead, Joe threw the wet prayer rug down onto the ground, made impure by himself he knew, ruined by his own lust for the man before him. Somewhere the picture and note lay forgotten in the rage that coursed through Joe. 

Joe grabbed his towel, wrapping it around his waist, and shoved past Nicky to head to the showers, knocking him into the bed frame. 

He wanted Nicky to shout back at him, push him, get angry for how unfair Joe was treating him, but instead Nicky cast his eyes down to the ruined rug on the ground, offering no resistance. Sliding out was the photo, wet at its edges, smiling faces that did not belong here staring back at him.


	9. All Good Deeds are Punished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains sexual assault. Please be advised, and if you'd like to avoid it but still read the story, you can safely stop reading at the "***" and I will give a summation at the end of the chapter for what happened.
> 
> Basically, Nicky works to clean Joe's rug, and sadly both Joe and Nicky will make poor choices as a result. It's gonna get dark before it gets better.

Joe spent the rest of the day staying away from his cell as much as he could, not wanting to face Nicky after his meltdown in the morning. When he’d returned from the shower, he found Nicky missing, to where he couldn’t guess but his rug was gone too. Its disappearance distressed him more, remembering the picture that had been bundled inside with the note, but Joe tried not to think of what became of them.

 _I shouldn’t care,_ he reminded himself. _I’m not going to pray and I would’ve thrown the picture away anyways. Doesn’t matter what he did with them. Maybe he’s going to jack off to the picture like the chomo he is_. He grit his teeth at the thought, disgusted by it but also guilty because he knew it just wasn’t true. _It’d be easier to hate him if it was true..._

Either way, when he saw Nicky again, he would confront him about where the items had gone. But already running late for his shift after waiting for Nicky to shave, Joe had to run off to be there for this morning’s delivery. Business came first after all.

The other guys in the kitchen even seemed to notice Joe’s bad mood and how he ran through two cigarettes in quick succession. 

“Something wrong, Joe?” Toto had asked, concerned there was something wrong with the delivery. 

“Nah, man,” Joe reassured him. “Just didn’t sleep well. Priest came back from solitary, and snored all night,” he lied. “Miss having a cell to myself I guess.”

Toto grunted in understanding, patting Joe on the back. “Well, maybe you’ll have some more nights to yourself soon. Accidents happen all the time around here.” His tone was ominous, but Joe knew better than to be surprised. He had told Toto Nicky meant nothing to him, and outside their cell he was fair game.

 _Is that why he was missing this morning?_ Joe tried not to dwell on the possibility. _He’s nothing to you. Nothing._

“Well, you look like _mierda_ , _ese_ ,” Toto said with a chuckle. “But everything good with the delivery?”

“Smooth as always.” Joe took a long drag on his cigarette. “So, speaking of accidents, anything planned?”

Joe glanced sideways at Toto, trying his best to act unconcerned. But Toto was no idiot, and Joe knew that better than anyone.

“Accidents just happen, _ese_ ,” Toto said with a sad sort of smile. “Unless you gotta reason why maybe one should be prevented?”

Joe regarded Toto, the cigarette smoke drifting between them. 

“No,” Joe reaffirmed. “Got no reason at all.”

Nicky tried his best to clean the stain. He had seen the shock and horror in Joe’s eyes as he realized he had stained the rug by aiding Nicky, the action of which still stunned Nicky even as the day drew on. 

After Joe stormed out, Nicky had carefully examined the prayer rug -- he knew exactly what it was and knew that his blood had indeed tainted it like Joe said, had made it _najis._ In his studies to become a priest, Nicky had deeply studied the other Abrahamic religions. And as long as it was _najis_ , it was unfit for use. Worse still, when he found the picture that had been tucked inside, Nicky understood even more that this rug held a deeper meaning.

Nicky hadn’t seen Joe pray with the other muslims, so he didn’t know if he was very religious besides the Quran he had on his shelf. But here was a rug that hadn’t been among his things. Though perhaps it had been hidden, for safekeeping, because it was special... and now it had been ruined, among other things, by Nicky.

 _I am tainted_. He breathed in deeply, folding the rug gently, handling the photo and note with care. He laid the note flat on his shelf to dry, avoiding reading it so as not to pry into Joe’s life despite his curiosity. He did the same with the picture though he did steal a glance at it to see a lovely young woman in a hijab with two little boys with matching warm smiles. 

_Is this his family?_ Nicky wondered. _Perhaps his wife and children?_ The boys, after all, bore a resemblance. _Which means you’re thinking your lustful thoughts about a married man. You really are disgusting, Nicolò_. 

As for the rug, Nicky knew he had to restore it though it would take a considerable amount more effort than the picture and note. He doubted it would make Joe any warmer towards him, but still, he felt an intense desire to offer Joe this small penance. 

_Maybe a gift from his wife?_ He winched. _I must fix it._

Taking a deep breath, Nicky ventured from the security of their cell in search of a solution though he currently had no solid ideas as to how to go about it. In his life outside these walls, he would’ve perhaps used lemon juice or hydrogen peroxide to rid the rug of the offending stain. He had tried cold water already and although it worked for the most part, still a little remained, ruining the lovely fabric and design. Making it _najis_ , impure for prayer.

The current problem was Nicky had but the faintest idea where to obtain any of those components to clean the rug. Perhaps the kitchen had lemons or vinegar, but considering the man, Beto, that Nicky had mauled worked in the kitchen, he doubted he would find any help there. 

He peered into the laundry room to see if someone there might help, but he quickly walked past when he realized it was the Aryan Brotherhood who seemed to be working laundry duty today. A few of them that had been thrown into the SHU at the same time as him glared at Nicky as he hurried past.

 _Perhaps a first aid kit might have hydrogen peroxide?_ He could buy some from the commissary but he had no money to his name. The director Copley had not paired him with a job yet to earn anything. 

_Perhaps go around and ask the other inmates if they have any?_ The thought made him nervous, unsure of how the others would treat him after already having two fights since entering Old Guard Prison. But he had to try.

And try he did, and while not everyone was hostile to him, the ones that did not openly tell him to fuck off, ignored him until he gave up and left. The looks the other inmates gave him reminded Nicky just how marked he was here. Not as a murderer, but as an enemy. Joe’s words echoed in his head, stabbing him in the chest each time he recalled the sharpness of Joe’s voice as he called him a “pedo.”

In the end, he felt he had two options left, perhaps seeking the peaceful group of mulsims who might be open to his quest to clean the prayer rug or Dr. Quynh who seemed sympathetic to Nicky’s place here. She was a kind woman and would surely have access to hydrogen peroxide.

But none of those ideas came to fruition as he found himself running directly into C.O. Keane. His presence startled Nicky, anticipating the first blow of his baton against his skull, but instead found Keane staring back at him with that friendly smile Nicky had come to despise. 

“What do you have there, inmate?” Keane asked, eyeing the bundle in Nicky’s hand.

Nicky clutched it tight on instinct, his eyes flitting back and forth between it and Keane’s face. He refused to cower before the man. 

_Maybe I can get him to bash open my head again so I can go see Dr. Quynh..._ It seemed an extreme sort of plan, but maybe not his worst.

“It’s nothing,” Nicky said, answering Keane’s smile with a frown.

“Well, doesn’t look like nothing.” Keane leaned into Nicky’s personal space, but Nicky dared not to recoil back. “Might be contraband. Maybe I should initiate a search. Would you like that? For me to search you again.” He leered at Nicky.

 _Sick pervert._ Nicky held out the bundle to C.O. Keane, knowing that if he wanted to see the rug, there was nothing Nicky could do to stop him. At least he might prevent himself from being forced into a room alone with him.

“Thank you,” Keane said, a satisfied grin irking Nicky. He opened up the little bundle to display the rug in front of him, examining it for what exactly Nicky couldn’t say. Instead Nicky marveled at the design and the colors, feeling even more guilt over marring such a lovely piece of fabric. 

“It’s got a small stain,” Keane muttered with his eyes still on the rug before him.

“Yes,” Nicky ground out. “I was hoping to clean it. May I have it back now?” Somehow seeing Keane handle it roughly annoyed Nicky.

Keane peered over at him, considering something. “How’re you planning to do that? Looks like blood.” He tilted his head. “I’m very familiar with blood stains here.”

Nicky felt only disgust for this man.

“I don’t know yet,” Nicky said back, not wanting to give Keane more details than he needed. He just knew he needed to get the rug back from Keane and get as far away from this man as was possible trapped inside here.

“I could help, you know,” Keane said, roughly bunching the rug into a ball in his first. Nicky hated how he treated it, wanting to snatch it back and punch the smile off Keane’s face. But he stayed his hand, knowing another trip to SHU would prevent him from getting the rug back to Joe. “I have some things in my locker to clean it with. As you can expect, I have to clean blood out of my uniform quite a bit. I hate to look a mess.” He flashed a toothy grin, and had he not been such an odious man, Nicky might’ve considered him handsome.

But Nicky perked up at the idea that the rug could be cleaned of his offending blood.

“You do? And you would do that?” Nicky mistrusted Keane immensely, and for good reason. And despite this bit of good news presented to him now, he knew a condition would be attached.

“I would,” Keane replied, leaning even closer to Nicky, daring him to recoil back. Nicky held firm, refusing to show weakness. Keane’s face turned from Nicky’s at the last second to bring his mouth and his moist breath to blow against the shell of his ear as he whispered, “For a small favor.”

NIcky could feel his jaw clench tight and his hands ball into fists. That strange madness he couldn’t rid himself off wanted to headbutt Keane, see him bleed. But that would only stain the rug more.

Instead, Nicky spat out, “What kind of favor?”

He could feel Keane’s grin widen on the side of his face. C.O. Keane drew back, studying Nicky carefully. Nicky dared him to push his luck.

“Nothing extreme.” He held his hands up like he was trying to placate Nicky. “I was being rude before. It would be a simple favor.”

“How simple?” Nicky hated to be having this conversation.

Keane leaned forward again suddenly, sniffing Nicky like a dog. “You need a shower, you smell like the SHU.” He exited Nicky’s personal space to stare into his eyes. “Come take a shower tonight, an hour before lights out.”

Nicky felt his body jolt, wanting to rush forward and punch the man, SHU be damned. But his eyes flicked down to the rug in Keane’s hands. He needed it back.

“Don’t worry,” Keane said with a chuckle. “I’m not going to touch you. Too public. I just want to watch.” His smile oozed with lecherous intent. “Promise to give me a good show. And you’ll get this back, all clean.”

Nicky glared at Keane, summoning all his disgust to throw at the man with just his eyes. Keane seemed to understand, but it only made him smile wider like he fed on Nicky’s revulsion. But Nicky kept his body still, knowing he had to negotiate.

“You’re...just going to watch?” Nicky kept his voice even, refusing to let loose a tremor or crack and give Keane the satisfaction.

“Yes. I promise. I won’t lay a hand on you. I can be a reasonable man. I won’t touch you until you ask me to.” 

_I’d sooner put my hand in a garbage disposal._

Swallowing down his pride, knowing that he would have to become accustomed to being nude in front of the other inmates and guards alike for his next eighty years, Nicky nodded his head.

“Okay.”

“Good boy.”

  
  


When Joe couldn’t delay staying away from his cell anymore as lights out approached, he walked in to find Nicky reading on his bunk, knees drawn up to rest the book on. He peered up as Joe entered his eyes unreadable.

A part of Joe wanted to apologize, knowing he had lashed out unfairly. He had had time to cool off, and he knew it wasn’t Nicky’s fault that he bled on the rug. It was Joe’s. And it was his uncontrollable softness towards this man that had caused it and that bothered him more than he cared to admit.

But instead Joe just grunted, “Hey,” as he came in, tired from his shift at the kitchen, a copy of _Don Quixote_ in his hand. In the end, Joe knew he would just ignore it all, climb into his bunk, and read until lights out.

“Hi,” Nicky said softly, his eyes flicking back to his own book, the cover of which Joe could not make out. He wanted to ask what it was, start a conversation so he could stare into those eyes and listen to the sound of Nicky’s alluring accent. Joe wondered if he was fully American with how he spoke.

But before Joe could decide what to do, Nicky added, “The rug has been cleaned, by the way. It’s on your desk. I...The stain is out.”

 _Oh?_ Joe stared at Nicky dumbly, unsure what to do or say. Finally, he moved forward to his side of the desk to find the rug laid out, still a bit damp, not a trace of the offending blood on the beautiful pattern. Joe scratched the back of his neck, knowing full well it was no simple task for someone like Nicky in a prison. He wondered how Nicky had pulled that off. _Maybe he spent the whole day soaking it..._ He didn’t know how to feel about that thought, that Nicky might take such care for Joe.

“Thank you,” Joe said softly, unsure of what else to do. He hadn’t expected Nicky to care, but then again he was a priest and weren’t they all about contrition and penance? _It’s not about me,_ Joe reasoned. _He just wants to be on my good side, probably protection. He doesn’t care about you. But..._ The thought that he might was, well, Joe didn’t quite know what it was. Only that it made him feel floaty and warm, like falling asleep bundled up in the cold.

“Nicky, I…”

“And I dried your note and picture as well. They are on my shelf.”

That caught Joe off guard, killing that dream like feeling and suddenly alert to the idea that Nicky could have read the note. It made him feel vulnerable and open like a raw nerve. Now he felt scared and violated.

Joe went over to Nicky’s shelf, finding the note and picture laid out there in the open. Something about how exposed those intimate objects were made Joe furious all over again. He tossed his book down hard on his desk, snatching the note and picture up. He whirled around on Nicky who had begun to put his book down to get up. Joe’s eyes pinned him in place.

“Did you look at them?” Joe demanded, seething. 

“What?” Nicky asked, a confused look twisting his serene face. 

“I asked you if you looked at them?” Joe held up the picture and the note, creasing them in his grip. 

“No, I mean, a little, just a little when I picked them up.” Joe spun away from him, crumpling the note in his hand and bending the picture with the other.

 _This is why these things don’t belong in here_ , Joe raged. _This place taints everything. Taints them. I taint them. They don’t belong here._

“I didn’t read the note!” Nicky continued as Joe began tearing up the crumpled note. He threw it into the sink, running the water to turn the paper into mush, letting the ink run, trying to erase the words. He could see a bit of the word “sister” and Yaz’s signature, and it made his blood boil. “And I only glanced at the picture. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to invade your privacy. I just wanted to make sure they dried okay.”

 _He looked at your family_ , a cruel voice in Joe’s head whispered to him. _His fucking pedophile eyes looked at your nephews._ Joe turned his head to look at Nicky over his shoulder, seeing that the man had stood up and was missing his prison smock and undershirt. He still hadn’t showered and was probably headed there now.

Joe hated himself for how his eyes traveled down the pale column of his neck to admire the shadow in his collarbone and his pale, hairless chest.

 _Stop looking at him like that_ , he scolded himself. 

“They look happy. Your family.” Nicky’s voice irritated Joe. “They are your family, yes?” Somehow Nicky’s attempts at conversation only angered Joe more. He crumbled the picture in his hand with his dark eyes still on Nicky’s face, before tossing it deliberately in the sink to let the water destroy it too. 

“Joe…” Nicky said, a sadness to him as he watched Joe dispose of the picture. Before he could say anything else, Joe rushed him, pushing him up against their bed frame, Joe’s long fingers burying themselves into Nicky’s hair to yank his head back and expose that tempting neck. It was thick, nothing dainty about it, and yet Joe yearned to feel his fingers around it and his breath against it.

Nicky didn’t fight him, only grabbing onto his shoulders as if to stay him just a little. Joe knew he could fight him, had seen him not back down so far from every man in here who attempted to strong arm him, but Nicky remained still, his large eyes seemingly casting a spell over Joe.

 _How are you doing this?_ Joe wondered. _How are you in my mind like that?_

Joe’s face was dangerously close to Nicky’s, his breath ghosting over Nicky’s mouth and nose with each angered huff of breath. He wanted to press his lips against Nicky’s, feel his beard scrape against his smooth skin, and taste him.

“Does my family look happy?” Joe hissed, letting his own hate for his weak, lustful self seep through. “Did it make you happy to look at them? Did it _excite_ you to look at my nephews? Did you think about them, you goddamn pedo-fucking-priest?”

He saw the flash in Nicky’s eyes and the sudden change from submission to anger. Joe grunted when he felt the jab against his stirring cock from Nicky’s knee, forcing him to let go of Nicky’s hair, doubling over. In a way, Joe was thankful for the pain to snap him back to himself. 

Leaning against Nicky’s bed, Joe peered up to see if Nicky would follow with more. Joe hoped Nicky would, hoped he would punch him in the face, over and over until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Knock him out so he didn’t have to think about Yasmin, his life, or how good his fingers felt in Nicky’s hair.

Instead, Nicky peered down at him, his eyes wet with unshed tears and a vicious grimace. His broad hands were shaking at his sides, balled into fists. 

“I am not _that_ ,” he seethed, with force and conviction, before turning, grabbing his towel and heading out. Joe let himself slide down to the floor, a dull ache still throbbing in his confused dick, and closed his eyes.

 _I know you’re not,_ a voice inside him whispered. 

“But you are some kind of jinn or devil sent to haunt me,” he muttered into the silence.

***

Nicky didn’t notice if any of the inmates stared or tried to call at him as he rushed out of his shared cell and headed towards the showers. He supposed it was best that his storm of emotions protected him from noticing as he walked, wearing just his sweats with his faded grey towel clutched to his bare chest. He could feel the strain on his face from the scowl he still bore after Joe’s words. 

_A pedo, doing...that...to a picture of children….!_ Nicky raged inside. He hated to be thought of that way even though he was aware of the rumors, aware of how the prosecution portrayed him during his trial as a sort of devious character capable of such things. _But they were right about you being a murderer. A sinner. A filthy sinner_.

He couldn’t forget how heated his skin felt as Joe pressed him against the bed frame, how close his face was, and how easily he would have let Joe do anything that he wanted to him in that moment if only to have his touch linger a moment longer.

 _Disgusting_ , he scolded himself. _That’s what you are_.

His mind came back to reality when he reached the showers, and found that the hallway leading to them was strangely empty. As he came closer to where the concrete transitioned to the stained, chipped tile of the showers, he caught sight of a caution sign standing up that read “ _DO NOT ENTER”_ and a strip of tape across the entrance with a hand printed sign. 

“Closed for maintenance,” Nicky read aloud to himself, confused but a part of him also relieved that maybe fate had granted him a reprieve of his bargain. It was an hour before lights out, and here he was, as promised, ready to put on a show for C.O. Keane in exchange for his help cleaning Joe’s prayer rug.

 _Lot of good that did_ , Nicky lamented as he recalled Joe tearing apart the letter and picture of his family. Had he really believed that Nicky tainted them? Was even his touch and his eyes enough to send Joe recoiling? 

_You are truly an abomination_.

“You came,” said a rough but pleased voice behind him. Nicky stiffened, refusing to jump or shake despite the fear now coursing through him. Instead he squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and turned his head to look over his shoulder at Keane. 

He was still in his uniform, with all his accompanying accessories that he used to terrorize and tame the inmates. In one way it was a relief as it made Nicky sure that he meant to keep his promise of only watching, but another still felt apprehensive to see his baton that had already caused him one trip to the infirmary. 

_I suppose another trip to see Dr. Quynh isn’t the worst thing in the world_ , he thought, hating that he was already becoming accustomed to beatings in exchange for the little morsel of kindness that Quynh offered. 

“I’m here,” Nicky replied, a sliver of his blue-green eyes glaring back at Keane.

“Don’t worry about the sign,” Keane said casually like he was apologizing for the messy state of his living room on a date. “It’s just so we aren’t interrupted.”

Nicky swallowed hard, turning his head back to the sign and to the bend in the hallway where the showers waited. He did need a shower, filthy still from his time in the SHU. He longed for the feeling of the cleansing water. His stomach growled too, reminding him of how he hadn’t eaten for two days and the hunger was beginning to catch up to him, making him feel faint. But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t be weak here in front of Keane. That would not be part of his “show.”

“Go on,” Keane urged with a bump of his shoulder to Nicky’s back, knocking him forward easily. That did startle Nicky, making him even more aware of how much of a mistake it might’ve been avoiding the mess hall for two days with how shaky he felt.

He strode forward confidently, bending under the strip of tape, and heading into the showers, not waiting to see how closely Keane followed. As far as Nicky was concerned, he was here to shower and then get out. Let Keane watch all he wanted.

It was odd to be here when it was so empty, the dingy white and cracked tiles looming larger around him when it wasn’t filled with dozens of men impatiently waiting for their turn under the shower stream. Nicky had never realized how big of a room it actually was, and he was able to count that there were actually six stalls instead of the five he had originally thought there was. 

He heard the footsteps approaching, and was reminded why he was here. He grit his teeth and walked over to one of the stalls, choosing one in the middle as if somehow that would make it harder for Keane to watch. He laid his towel over the half wall dividing the stalls and stripped off his sweats and underwear in one go, forcing himself not to delay lest Keane find some pleasure in watching him strip. 

He hadn’t meant to come down here in his sweats, but after kneeing Joe, another of his rash, foolhardy actions that were his vice as of late, Nicky knew he had to escape and get away. Not because of the time or because he was even scared of Joe. Even though he knew Joe could easily have fought back, he saw how he slumped to the floor, waiting for Nicky to continue. He couldn’t understand why, but he knew he couldn’t stand to have Joe look at him anymore and think of him as…. _that_.

Reaching out to turn on the faucet, Nicky peered over to where Keane stood. He held his hands behind his back, annoyingly cocky, and grinned at Nicky. That grin Nicky found revolting as he just stood there, waiting for his “show.” 

“Get clean,” he ordered in his spotless uniform. “You’re filthy.” Nicky felt his eyes on every crevice and plane of his body, and he had never felt more unclean than he did in that moment. But he steeled himself, remembering Keane’s promise to only watch, not touch, and decided to get it over with as quickly as he could.

 _The rug is cleaned_ , he consoled himself as the first wave of icy water hit the top of his head, forcing a violent shiver to run through him. _That’s what matters. I cleaned the one stain that was able to be cleaned_. The rest of the stains he had in his life, well, there was nothing to be done about those. 

At last, the water warmed and gave way to a steady stream of hot water that soothed his tense muscles and sore bruises. He wondered if Keane enjoyed the purpling and bluish marks that had been inflicted by the brute’s visit to him in the SHU. Maybe that was why he wanted this show, so he could admire his artistic efforts across Nicky’s pale skin.

He lathered himself up, relishing the feel of the soap cleaning the dirt and grim from his body. It helped him to almost forget for a moment that Keane was there, watching for whatever sick perverse reason he had. 

_Does he do this to others or am I just special?_ Nicky wondered. _Maybe he could see it, the real you, the tainted you, the revolting you hidden inside…_

Finally, he poured some shampoo into his hands and started to work it into his hair, working out the small knots that had formed from sleeping on the hard floor of the SHU, and he wondered if Keane was enjoying watching this mundane activity. He had expected the man to demand a performance of some kind from Nicky, to touch himself or show off parts of his body in some way. But the man had been oddly quiet.

It was surprisingly more unsettling this way.

As the waterfall of water washed the soapy traces of the shampoo, he sensed movement around him. He wondered if Keane was going to break his promise after all and attempt to touch him. Maybe swipe his finger across his lip, push him to his knees, and demand a different kind of performance. 

_Let him_ , Nicky thought spitefully. _I’ll bite it off_.

As he ran his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes and chasing away the water, he heard a new voice behind him whisper close to his ear.

“ _Hola princesa_.”

Nicky’s blood ran cold in an instant, his body whirling around sharply to face Beto, slipping on the slick tile and falling back against the wall where the shower head loomed above him. But instead of finding just Beto, Nicky found five men looming in front of him -- Beto and his two goons from his first day and the two members of the Arayan brotherhood he had stabbed with a fork and slammed with a tray respectively, stripped down to nothing, not even a towel around their waist, their cocks in various states of arousal. Nicky’s breath came hard and fast as adrenaline shot through him, his body already ready for the fight he knew was coming.

They smiled, some lazily stroking themselves to full erection, eyeing Nicky up and down, making him feel even dirtier than he had been when he entered.

Beto came for him first, reaching out to grab Nicky’s arm, but Nicky was quicker, kicking him in his stomach to shove him away. He fell back with a cry as his two thick necked bruisers came next, easily catching his next kick and a failed attempt at a punch. Nicky was vaguely aware of the sound of his voice shouting curses at them as they grabbed and groped him, attempting to maneuver him into submission. He bucked widely in their grip, heatbutting one with the back of his head, the sharp, stunning pain of which was worth the shouted cry. 

He fought viciously to free himself, but everywhere there were hands on his wet skin, more than he could fight, and finally a blow to the side of his head stunned him, weakening his thrashing limbs. Encouraged, more blows followed, hard fists against his vulnerable, naked flesh, pressing new bruises into healing ones, and the horribly sick feeling of a stitch in his scalp breaking free.

“Get his fucking hands!” someone shouted, maybe Muller from the day before that Nicky had stabbed with a plastic fork. Nicky struggled harder, fighting against his own growing fatigue and his own realization that there was little he could do to get out of this situation. He was bruised, starved, outnumbered, and isolated -- no one was coming, and the guard on duty was Keane, no doubt finally enjoying his “show.”

A violent blow to his stomach knocked the wind and fight from him, and Nicky doubled over in their arms. As he wheezed, struggling to refill his lungs, the hands pushed him into the shower floor, his face pressed against the wet tile. The hands twisted his arms behind his back sharply, forcing a cry from his lips at the burn in his tendons. A bit of plastic bound his wrists together, and Nicky realized Keane had provided his attackers with prison issued flex cuffs so the harder he struggled, the more the plastic would tighten and shred the delicate skin at his wrists. 

“Get his pants, I got an idea,” another voice said, probably Beto Nicky guessed. “And get the thing in his mouth.”

 _Get the what?_ Nicky barely had a moment to speculate as he felt the damp fabric of his pants looped around his upper arms, forcing his arms back even more than the cuffs did, jutting his chest out sharply against the floor he was still pressed to.

“Stop! No! Sto--,” Nicky tried shouting just as someone sat down on his back, forcing the wind from his lungs again so that he could barely breathe. The man pressed his weight down and Nicky could feel his hardened cock press against the back of his head. The feeling of which awoke the terror of what was about to happen inside him, causing him to buck as hard as he could to dislodge the man. Somewhere above him, he could hear cruel laughter before something cold and rigid was shoved into his mouth. 

“Fuck you! You---,” was the final words he formed before a ring of metal was forced behind his teeth, propping his mouth open painfully wide. He worked his jaw and tongue to try to dislodge it, but the leather straps on the side of his face traveling backwards to lock behind his head made it impossible.

“Nnnnnghhh! Aaahhhhghhh!” Nicky made incomprehensible sounds around the O-ring gag that now held his mouth open. He struggled to breath around it and the man still pressing down on his back and his trapped arms. All he could do was kick weakly, feet sliding and finding no purchase, and thrash his head when he felt a hand reach down to pat him on his cheek.

“He looks really sexy this way,” someone said above him. 

“Quick, get him up and put him against the stall. I go first,” said another.

 _First!? Doing what?_ But Nicky already knew.

The weight lifted off his back, allowing him a moment of reprieve as air filled his lungs again though every part of his body ached and screaming in agony. The hands returned, hauling him up like he was nothing but a sack, dragging him back to the shower stall he had just been in. His eyes tried to track the movement of the five men, and search for Keane to see if he was enjoying his “show _”_ after all. But all he caught sight of were the nude bodies and swollen cocks around him as he was shoved up against the divider wall of the shower. 

His struggling grew weaker and weaker, and it became all the more easy for them to maneuver him into position. Another took his towel, wrapping it around Nicky’s neck to choke him and keep his head up trapped in place against the wall, his mouth open and waiting. 

“I’m really gonna fuckin’ enjoy this,” sneered Beto as he held his cock in hand and stared down at Nicky, his healing purpled thumb on display for Nicky to see. “ _Pinche puto_ mother fucker.”

Nicky wanted to scream at the man and bite the rest of his thumb off, but all he could do is writhe and struggle as Beto shoved his chubby dick into Nicky’s mouth. He shut his eyes against the intrusion, not wanting to see the wiry patch of hair between his legs come closer, though he felt it soon enough press against his face as Beto shoved his entire cock into Nicky’s vulnerable mouth. 

Nicky wanted to gag, the smell and taste of Beto in his nose and on his tongue was revolting. He bit down on the metal ring in his mouth, willing himself to summon enough strength to break through it to bite off the intruder in his mouth, but there was nothing Nicky could do. In and out, Beto thrust his cock back and forth, dragging the sour, pungent taste of him against Nicky’s tongue. Nicky was thankful at least he wasn’t long enough to hit the back of his throat too roughly on each snap of his hips.

Hands gripped his hair and ears like handles as Beto’s pace increased, the prodding against the back of his throat increasing. He felt rough nails scrape along his scalp, and Nicky tensed at the sensation, so close to his opening stitches. Nicky fought the urge to gag, snapping open his eyes to stare hatefully up at the man taking his pleasure in his mouth. 

His head was tossed back as he moaned, “ _Pinche putita, que rico la mamas! Mmmm..._ FUCK!” He thrust in deep, burying Nicky’s nose into his coarse hair, forcing Nicky to breath him in deep lest he suffocate, as he flooded Nicky’s mouth with the bitter taste of his release. 

Nicky squeezed his eyes, forcing back tears and he felt the warm cum coat the back of his throat, threatening to drown him. When Beto pulled himself from Nicky’s mouth, spit and cum trailed from Nicky’s stretched lower lip to his softening cock.

Coughing roughly between gasps, Nicky did the best he could to expel the offending fluid that threatened to choke him. But he didn’t have long to rest before another cock was shoved unceremoniously into his mouth, the mousey brown patch of the man Muller coming into his field of vision.

“My turn,” Muller huffed out, spearing in his thinner yet longer dick into Nicky, setting a brutal pace that battered the back of his throat. Around his veiny cock, Nicky sputtered and choked, feeling the need to gag upon every thrust. With tears coming unbidden from his eyes, Nicky stared up at the man, refusing to close his eyes.

“Yeah, I bet you’re angry, fuckin’ whore,” Muller said, taking his dick out to rub the flesh colored tip around Nicky’s lips, smearing them with his precome. “You look good with a little gloss on your lips. You like lookin’ pretty for me, don’t you?” He smiled, thrusting back in roughly, chasing his pleasure as Nicky fought to keep from gagging. He worked to breath through his nose though that drew in the odious stench of the man before him, forcing him to retch violently around the invading cock and its release. 

“God, this fucking mouth feels so fucking good!” the next man shouted as he took his turn. Nicky fought to keep his eyes open to stare hatefully at the men, refusing to be broken, despite how his eyes burned from the leftover soapy water and his own unbidden tears. A few reached down during their long turns in his mouth to tease at his nipples, his chest thrust out by the bindings on his arms and wrist. He hated how they played with him, his nipples growing hard at their ministrations which greatly amused them. 

What amused them even more was how he gagged and sputtered on their cocks. The men varied their thrusts from slow and shallow, letting the spongy heads drag along his tongue as he weakly tried to whip his head from side to side to escape it, to punishingly fast and rough. Nicky grew dizzy with how often the back of his head was slammed against the tile behind it.

One pulled out to allow another to have a turn at his mouth, going around to his side to shoot thick ropes of cum on his cheek, eyes, and finally into his hair. Nicky shuddered as he felt a bit of cum ooze in his hair down onto his now popped stitches. 

When the last man took his turn, Nicky was weakened and fatigued, barely fighting anymore though he still sluggishly worked to keep his hateful stare on the men around him as he attempted to cough out their semen. He didn’t know how long it had been, maybe only minutes though it felt like hours. 

The water was still running and steam filled the room, and Nicky felt dizzy and lightheaded from the beating and the humidity. So much fluid was dripping down from his stretched, swollen lips, a mix of saliva, cum, and whatever he managed to throw up when the fourth man finally gagged him hard enough to vomit.

Worst of all, he hated how his starved stomach craved the cum that he was unable to stop himself from swallowing down. He could feel it coat his insides, seeping into him and staining him.

“She’s a hungry slut,” someone above him said with a laugh. “That mouth was made to take cocks.”

He struggled to breath, his chest burning with each breath like the muscles there were too weak and tired to expand. He wondered if it was his body shutting down, wanting to wither away and die instead of endure anymore of this.

“God, I want to come again,” said one, though Nicky couldn’t tell who despite his open eyes. He was staring out at nothing, his eyes glazed over, his jaw aching to close so he could finally rest. Finally, someone let go the towel around Nicky’s neck, allowing his head to flop down. Nicky just wanted to close his eyes, fall asleep, and never wake up again. “Are you sure we can’t use his ass?”

“No you fuckin’ spic! He said just to use his mouth.”

 _Please... I’m tired_ , Nicky bemoaned. He felt himself start to slump down, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into the corner of the stall, curl up, and disappear. His lips felt raw and swollen, perhaps even cracked and bleeding. And his throat burned and felt clogged and ruined.

“I know what the fuck he said you skin head piece of shit! He said we couldn’t _fuck_ his ass. Doesn’t mean we can’t _fuck with_ it.”

 _Please_ , Nicky pleaded inside, his mouth unable to form the words with the metal ring still shoved in. _No more...I’m tired, please._

“Like what?” 

“Oh, I got an idea.”

 _Please no. Please stop._ The hands were on him again, dragging him back despite his renewed attempts to fight and kick at them. Hands grabbed his ankles, flipping him over onto his stomach, his chest pressed down again to limit his oxygen. Someone hauled his hips up over a knee and he felt fingers pull his asscheeks apart.

 _Please not this..._ Somewhere someone was whining, and it took him a moment to realize it was him. Then he felt it, the push and burn of something against his sphincter, triggering his fight or flight response again. But in his exhaustion, he could barely fight back anymore, instead only managing a pathetic, weak struggle that wiggled his hips to their laughter and amusement.

He felt the man underneath his hips grow hard, and Nicky couldn’t stop his trembling at the possibility that it was all about to start again. 

“His ass is sexy when he squirms like that,” someone purred above him.

With his mouth still held open by the gag, Nicky howled at the burning feeling of his bar of soap being roughly forced into him, pushing past his clenching hole, tearing him open. He fought to free his arms from his bindings and couldn’t tell if the slick feeling between his parted ass was from water or blood.

“ _Ease, ease, ahh, ahh!_ ” he cried with a hoarse voice between his violent gasps that might have been sobs if his mouth was free. But they responded only with laughter and jeers, a few making comments about having another round in his mouth. They still had time, they said. 

_Please, please, stop, stop!_ He could feel the tears coming harder and freer now down his cheeks, lost in the shower water and the steam. _You’ve done enough, please leave me alone now….I’m tired…_

In his deliriousness and haze of pain, Nicky thought he saw a figure standing over him, a familiar face that didn’t belong here though he often haunted his dreams. Peering up at his haunting vision, Nicky wept freely.

He felt fingers in his hair pull his face up to another angry, purple head of the cock of one of his assailants. It shoved in roughly, immediately gagging him, and he tried to scream around it as it choked him violently while the soap’s wide shape was spearing its way inside of him. Nicky felt like his whole body was an open wound, pain everywhere.

 _I’m sorry,_ he called out to the figure. _I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m sorry…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cries* Yes, I know, I am cruel to poor Nicky and Joe. I am sorry, but also not sorry. It's a dark story but there will be moments of hope coming, I promise!....eventually.... Thank you to everyone who encouraged me, beta'd me, and held my hand whilst I played cruel author. And thank you to everyone still here, reading and supporting this story! It means a lot while covid and family issues drive me insane.
> 
> If you skipped down here to find out what happened, here is a summary: Nicky went to showers, met Keane there who had roped the area off with a "closed for maintenance" sign, and Nicky went inside and began to shower while Keane watched. However, Nicky soon finds himself surrounded by five men (Beto, his two thugs, and the two aryans he attacked in the mess hall) who tie him up and force an O-ring gag in his mouth (how that was obtained will be addressed later) and each force Nicky to perform oral sex. It ends with them forcing Nicky's legs apart to begin shoving a bar of soap into him and then fades to black. To be continued...


	10. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copley holds a staff meeting with Warden Merrick in attendance. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay don't throw rocks at me...this chapter contains no Joe or Nicky....all right, throw the rocks, I deserve it.  
> I'm so sorry, I for whatever reason felt the need to take a break away from them and focus on some others while showing how the prison is going to handle Nicky's assault while giving some clues as to how the previous scene ended. Please have patience with me! I know this is probably frustrating so I will do my best to post the next chapter soon so you can find out how what became of Nicky and Joe. Believe me, I also want to get to the comfort too. 
> 
> Trigger warning for discussions of sexual assault. This is my attempt to tackle the heavy topic of sexual assault in the US prison system. I am by no means an authority on the subject, all my research is internet shallow with some first hand stories from a friend of mine who worked at a max security prison in New Mexico, and all bent to fit story purposes for the drama. It is a very important topic though, and if you feel enraged (as I did while researching), please get in contact with state officials and congressmen. One bright spot is the current US President is ending federal contracts with privatized prisons and that's a step in the right direction.

James Copley put on his best game face as he sat down to the meeting he had called in the warden’s luxuriously spacious office, a stark contrast to the rest of the dingy prison it lorded over. It was early in the morning, and Copley tried diligently to appear calm and in control as opposed to the fuming wreck he felt inside. He cast quick glances at half-filled shelves around the room and the dusty tops of the books housed there, evidence of their seldom use, before turning his attention to the faces surrounding him as he laid out his file folders. He was acutely aware of one missing face, the most important person who needed to be at this meeting, whose office they now sat in, and clenched his jaw in frustration.

_ Dammit Merrick, twenty minutes late...typical. _ Copley audibly sighed, the closest he could come to voicing his displeasure with his superior.

“Perhaps we should start,” Dr. Quynh suggested from her seated position, her face reflecting Copley’s frustrations though her voice kept level. “This issue is extremely important and time sensitive, and I know I can’t be wasting all day waiting on the warden. Especially if he can’t be bothered to show up on time.”

“Well--,” Copley began.

“We need to wait for the warden,” C.O. Keane cut in, standing alongside C.O. Booker, his arms folded over his massive chest. His face was stern and annoyingly serious, as if Keane was one who abided by the rules here. It irritated Copley, who wished for nothing more than to fire the man as Head of Security over the numerous complaints regarding his use of force, not to mention his open defiance of Copley whenever possible, but Warden Merrick had consistently blocked his attempts despite hardly being around. It was probably this irritatingly dogged loyalty Keane had for Merrick that secured his position and kept him a constant headache for Copley. 

“Just because you sit in his chair,” Keane said with the hint of a smirk on his lips as he eyed Copley, “doesn’t make you warden when he’s not here.”

Copley cleared his throat, trying to hide how tightly he clenched his fists under the desk he sat at. Of course, it was not Copley’s intention to lead the meeting from this chair, well aware of his secondary position, but he had been reviewing his files at the desk when the others had come in. And as time ticked on with no Merrick in sight, Copley might have to play the role of de facto warden after all. It was a common occurrence.

“I am well aware of that, C.O. Keane.” Copley kept his composure, one of his many talents that made him well suited for this job. “But regardless of whether or not he’s here, I am still acting director of inmate affairs, and therefore, your superior. So I expect a little more decorum on your part when addressing your concerns.” He angled his neck, tilting his head towards Keane, hoping to pour some bite into the sharp line of the smile he directed at the man. Keane’s smirk remained, but he offered no other comment, so Copley decided to count it as a ceasefire between them. 

The truth was that Copley was a ball of nerves and would prefer to stand and pace around, but it was steadily becoming apparent that he might have to, in fact, conduct the meeting himself.

“I would strongly prefer Warden Merrick to be here for this meeting. However, it would seem he has other priorities this morning, and we can not delay this investigation any longer. It’s already been three days since the incident, and we are at risk of being in violation of the PREA standards we adhere to--”

“That’s only if there is any investigation to be had,” came the soft, sterile voice of the middle-aged blond woman seated next to Dr. Quynh. She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, white prison-issued coat over her modest blouse and tailored pants. Her hair wrapped pristinely into the bun at the back of her head while her legs crossed one over the other under her chair, completing her portrait as the shrewd and intelligent woman she was.

“Are you serious?” Dr. Quynh shot the woman an incredulous look.

Copley sighed, wondering if he should anticipate being interrupted for the rest of the meeting. He took off his glasses, wiping them with a soft cloth, enjoying the small reprieve.

“If you please, Dr. Kozak, Dr. Tran,” Copley said with a steady voice. “Each of you will have your time to issue your findings on the matter. But for now let’s start with --”

“This better be good Copley!” came the snively, British lilt of the small man bursting through the door, sunglasses hiding his bloodshot eyes from, no doubt, a heavy bender the night before and a cup of coffee from a hipster cafe in hand. Copley eyed the offending cup, most likely one of the causes of Merrick’s delay. 

By now, Copley reasoned he should be acquainted with Merrick’s tardiness and general apathy towards his calls and requests for meetings, but it still grated him every time. These meetings were important. He knew the man didn’t care for this job and would sooner be rid of it. As the heir presumptive of Merrick Trust, the party boy knew running this prison was his stepping stone towards running the company one day and would therefore do the bare minimum required until he could move on. 

Steven Merrick had even admitted as much when he hired Copley to be his proxy in running The Old Guard Prison facility. Copley had been idealistic at the time, feeling he could do some good in his role and make the best out of the young man’s apathy. 

_ Oh, what a mistake that was. _

“I can assure you, Warden, it is of extreme importance,” Copley said, standing up to vacate the leather office chair for him, thankful for the chance to stretch his legs. While Copley stood before the others, hands resting on his hips, Merrick flopped into his chair carelessly like he was already immensely bored with the whole meeting despite it having barely begun. Copley suppressed the irritated sigh he wanted to huff out. 

“I appreciate you making time to be here, Warden.”

“Well, you said our funding was at risk, Copley!” Merrick bemoaned, whipping his sunglasses off and taking a swig out of his paper coffee cup. “I am the warden after all. Though I thought it was safe to leave you in charge while I tended to other matters, but perhaps not. God! Copley, sit down, you’re making me bloody nervous standing there like that!” He rubbed his temples, doing his best to work out the tension headache of his hangover no doubt.

Copley suppressed a sigh as he pulled a chair from in front of the desk to sit on the same side as Merrick. If he was going to be forced to sit after all, Copley decided to reinforce his position as the warden’s proxy to Keane. He watched Merrick, wondering if he would object, but the man was too busy peering out at the people sitting in the room, his brow furrowing as he worked to recall their names. The man had been there to hire each and every one of them, yet the only name he ever seemed to remember was Keane’s.

_ Guess sucking-up has its benefits. _

“Yes, well, thank you everyone for being here. Let’s begin. For the record,” Copley began, nodding to his assistant sitting nearby taking minutes for the meeting, “let me state that we have present: Dr. Meta Kozak, mental health practitioner on staff; Dr. Quynh Tran, head medical practitioner on staff; Head of Security John Keane, initial responding officer to the  _ incident _ ; and also in attendance C.O. Sebastian Le Livre, a witness on the day.” Each person nodded in turn as their names were said, looking at Merrick to remind him of their names he had most likely forgotten. 

“Now, let the record show that, each of those in attendance are trained and well versed in Old Guard’s Sexual Abuse Prevention and Reporting policies--”

“Bloody hell, Copley!” Merrick, nearly choking on his coffee he sipped at, waving his hand in annoyance at the onslaught of official jargon. “Yes, yes, we know all about it. We’ve all had the training. Perhaps we could stop wasting time and get to the point?”

“If I may,” Copley said, keeping his composure, “it is in the guidelines established in this prison’s program to comply with the Prison Rape Elimination Act laws that we verify our staff’s credentials to be handling--”

“No, you may not, Copley,” Merrick shut him down, peering down at the smart phone he had pulled from his pocket, to check the time or an incoming text, Copley couldn’t say and didn’t care. “Look, we don’t need to waste time on all this redundant procedure. And please, until I know if there is something  _ actually _ worth reporting, let’s avoid any... _ inflammatory _ language. You!” He peered over at Copley’s assistant taking notes, pointing. “Strike any mention of the word ‘rape.’ In fact, why are you even here? I thought this meeting was to determine if there is even an allegation to substantiate.”

“Celeste is here,” said Copley sharply to stop his assistant from leaving, “because it is in this facility’s guidelines that all meetings concerning an inmate  _ incident _ where an inmate required medical attention not sustained during a security officer encounter be documented. For legal reasons to prevent any harmful lawsuits the inmate could bring against this facility. As I am sure you are aware, warden. I’d prefer to audio record these meetings, but last budget meeting, you said we couldn't allocate funds for that. Unless you’d like to reconsider?” 

Merrick leaned back in his expensive leather chair, a costly item paid for by the prison that was hardly used save for the warden’s own vanity when he took meetings here, and regarded Copley with irritation tinged with amusement. Yes, Warden Merrick didn’t care for Copley’s rigid ways, but he at least had some small respect for the man’s attention to detail as his proxy.

“No, please, this isn’t a budgetary meeting, Copley. Celeste can stay. I prefer paying people than machines to do a job, anyway. Let’s just try to keep the usage of  _ certain _ words at a minimum until we’ve all here established what happened.” He turned his face to regard the others in the room, a foppish piece of his dark brown hair flopping over his forehead. He smiled wide with his thin lips and crooked teeth, parading his facade as their intrepid leader. “Let’s begin shall we. Copley?”

Copley worked to relax his clenched hands so that he could open his folder and begin his report, hoping however unlikely that he might be able to go uninterrupted.

“At 21 hours and 52 minutes on the fifteenth, C.O. Keane reported to the tower an incident had occured in the showers in between guard rotations, that involved at least two inmates, possibly more. One inmate was injured and taken to the infirmary where Dr. Tran attended to him. That inmate was Prisoner number OG1099, Nicolò diGenova. The other was Prisoner number OG1066, Yusuf Al-Kaysani, who was not seriously injured despite the force C.O. Keane used, by his own admission, to subdue him on suspicion that he was involved in assaulting Mr. diGenova. However, this remains unclear and unsubstantiated.” Copley peered Keane out of the corner of his eye, anticipating an interruption but also watching for any crack in his facade, doubting very much his assertion that Yusuf had anything to do with the state Nicolò was found in.

“Is he also in the infirmary?” Merrick asked, almost looking interested. 

“No, he is currently in the secured housing unit pending this investigation. Although currently the only accusation for his involvement is being championed by C.O. Keane.” Copley glared fully at the man now, making no effort to hide his disapproval. Copley could believe Yusuf would lash out at Keane when provoked, as he had many incidents on record of such violent encounters with C.O.’s and fellow inmates, but to be responsible for what Copley surmised had happened to Nicolò…

_ No,  _ Copley knew.  _ He isn’t that type of man. I’ve known him six years, and he’s not capable of that _ . Copley had been accused often of being soft towards the inmates under his care, usually by Merrick and Keane, for seeing them as flawed human beings in need of guidance instead of the brutes and monsters they insisted they all were. But Copley refused to chase monsters, lest he become one himself.

“And we are sure that this inmate was indeed assaulted?” Merrick asked, unconcerned about Yusuf. He peered between the two doctors seated before him, both in their white medical coats though Dr. Quynh’s scrubs underneath signaled her position as medical versus psychiatric. 

“In my professional medical opinion,” Dr. Quynh qualified her words, knowing full well how to deal with Warden Merrick, “yes. Definitely. Mr. diGenova had defensive wounds and injuries consistent with a beating. Also there was evidence of restraints used due to ligature marks around his arms, wrists, and mouth. So yes, I would say an assault occurred. And that it was that it was also sexual in nature.” She folded her arms across her chest, waiting for the inevitable pushback.

“Okay, let’s hold off on those assertions,” Merrick challenged right away. “I want to hear C.O. Keane’s report first. Seeing as how he was first to respond to the incident, and will most likely have the most important observations for what occurred. Keane, if you please.” Merrick turned a smile towards the man, as if this was a pleasant chat amongst employees instead of an investigation into a potential sexual assault.

“Thank you, Warden.” Keane straightened himself, appearing as the ever diligent boy scout he claimed to be. Despite his pristine uniform and clean cut appearance, Copley knew the man operated by his own set of rules. 

“C.O. Le Livre and I were on duty in quadrant F around the showers that night starting at 1800 hours. We made our usual rounds as time for lights out approached, and I checked in on the showers area every fifteen minutes until about 2100 hours when we switched over to a thirty minute rotation. Area was mostly empty save for a couple of inmates coming in for a late night shower who left fairly quickly. I did see inmate diGenova enter the showers around 2100 hours but when I checked the showers thirty minutes later, they were empty. A commotion at about fifteen minutes to lights out brought my attention back to the showers, and upon entering, I found the room filled with steam from running water, and I came upon inmate Kaysani standing over inmate Genova who was lying on the shower floor, unresponsive. I engaged inmate Kaysani, asking what he was doing, and the inmate charged me, forcing me to draw my weapon and subdue him onto the floor, where I restrained him so that I could secure the room and search for others. During my search, I met C.O. Le Livre outside the showers in the hallway, who was also drawn by the commotion. I informed him of the situation at hand, and we proceeded from there to alert the tower for more officers to come assist and provide any medical intervention needed.”

Keane turned his head to regard Booker who stood beside him, his head down and a lock of his blond hair falling in his eyes. He stood with his arms crossed, almost as if hugging himself.

“Do you want to add anything, Book?” Keane asked, his tone neutral.

Booker’s blue eyes flicked up to the man, holding his gaze for a moment before straightening and letting his arms drop to his side as he regarded the rest of the room. He coughed, clearing his throat, and Copley prayed to whatever god that would listen that Booker was sober.

“Yea, as Officer Keane stated, I met him in the hallway. I was drawn by a commotion of inmates shouting, finding that inmate Al-Kaysani was running through the cell block, knocking over another inmate, so close to lights out, ignoring all calls to stop. I followed in the direction the inmates indicated he went, which is how I ended up meeting C.O. Keane in the hallway who informed me of his scuffle with inmate Al-Kaysani. He…” Booker’s eyes flicked back briefly to Keane who watched the blond man intently. Holding his gaze, Booker continued, “C.O. Keane advised me to radio the tower for additional support in dealing with the situation. In order to preserve proper reporting and procedure.” 

Copley watched Keane for any shift in his demeanor, any tension to leave his shoulders or jaw, hoping to see any sign that he might’ve been nervous about C.O. Le Livre’s statement. But the man was unchanged and frustratingly unreadable. 

“Okay, then--” Merrick said, clapping his hands together as if the matter was over. 

“I would like to add, warden, if you’ll allow,” Booker broke back in, stepping forward away from Keane. Keane did appear a little started at that, interesting Copley. “That while I understand it is C.O. Keane’s belief that inmate Al-Kaysani might’ve been a part of or responsible for inmate diGenova’s alleged assault, I think that it is unlikely. He was seen running towards the showers close to the time Keane came on the scene. Given the narrow window of time, I think it’s unlikely he was responsible for....” Booker coughed again. “The state inmate diGenova was in.”

Copley suppressed his pride that threatened to break out a smile on his lips, and hoped that despite his stone-still features, Keane was raging on the inside.

“Thank you for that, C.O. Le Livre.” Merrick smiled at the man, genuinely or patronizing, Copley couldn’t say. “And the state that he was in...you are of course referring to what Dr. Tran has reported. That is to say, the level of severity of his injuries?”

“Well,” Keane said, stepping forward to crowd Booker and reassert his narrative. “Inmate Genova did have a number of injuries that were also sustained from a fight earlier in the week, a fight he instigated and spent several days in the SHU for. I’m sure Copley has documentation of that. He seemed to be bleeding from a reopened wound after the incident but not terribly. And despite Dr. Tran’s assertions that he had been restrained, there were no restraints of any kind found at the scene.”

“Well, he got those marks somehow,” Quynh fired at Keane, turning her head to regard him with her dark eyes, simmering with ire for the man. “And he didn’t get them in the SHU -- they were fresh. Not to mention, the shallow cuts on his wrists were similar to the ones I’ve treated here quite often for inmates restrained with your officers’ cuffs.”

“And you’re suggesting what then?” Keane spat out, for a moment letting his calm mask fall away. C.O. Keane and Dr. Quynh were often at odds. 

“That prison issued flex cuffs were used in the assault on inmate diGenova.” She watched Keane, waiting for him to balk at her answer. Instead he simply smiled like he would at a child telling a made up story.

“And how do you know he didn’t sustain those injuries when I cuffed him at the scene? He became violent. I had to restrain him in order to allow _my_ officers to see to his injuries and get him to your infirmary. I can’t risk the safety of my guys when all they’re trying to do is help these animals. And what’s more, how would another inmate get access to flex cuffs?” Keane tilted his head at Quynh, voice low and just bordering on threatening. “Commissary? Or are you suggesting one of my officers is to blame?”

“No one is suggesting that,” Copley interrupted, knowing the dangerous and volatile territory this conversation was fast approaching. “It would not be the first time inmates have come into possession of such contraband. And I’m sure Dr. Quynh took your cuffing of Mr. diGenova into consideration, so I think the important thing to take away from this is that if Mr. diGenova was indeed restrained  _ before _ you found him, it would back up the allegation that he was assaulted. Now, thank you for your statements. C.O. Keane. C.O. Livre. You may both go back to your duties.” 

Copley had hoped for more cracks in Keane’s stories by having the man speak in person before Warden Merrick, but it was fast becoming apparent that his presence may result in a brawl should he attempt to rile up Dr. Quynh anymore. He needed Quynh most of all to be here in his corner, level headed and focused on the matter at hand. 

The two men nodded to Warden Merrick before exiting, though Keane paused a moment in the doorway, no doubt seeking for a way to stay in on the meeting. Warden Merrick seemed to notice him and caught his eye, nodding his head that he was free to leave. The brief exchange rankled Copley, but he was glad when Keane’s overbearing presence was gone.

“All right then, Copley,” Merrick began, turning towards him. “It would seem very likely that yes another fight has occurred, especially considering that this inmate had already had an incident earlier in the week?”

“Well, yes, there was an incident in the dining hall--,”

“And he’s not been here very long, correct? He’s the priest, isn’t he? From that trial? God, that was a bloody long thing. Very high profile though. It was quite a boon for us to get such a prisoner.” Merrick smiled wide, pride beaming. The sight sickened Copley. “Good publicity for us. All the new contracts it brought to the prison, and a fair few quid to boot. I daresay our earnings this quarter will be substantial. Though seems he’s a bit of a troublemaker, isn’t he?” He chuckled then, Copley and Quynh regarding him with cold looks while Dr. Kozak cracked a smile.

“Yes, it is true he hasn’t been here long, though I surmise that his so-called fight had more to do with the intense attention focused on him due to his high profile case. So I would not agree that he is a ‘troublemaker.’ Regarding him as such might also suggest he brought this assault on himself.”

_ Victim blaming of the highest order _ , Copley thought bitterly.

“Of course that’s not what I am saying, Copley! For God’s sake. But we have plenty of inmate fights and incidents of them injuring one another. That’s what happens when you cage all these dangerous animals together. Inmate...what’s his name?” Merrick snapped his fingers, trying to summon the name. “---the other one, Kay---something, his name sounds familiar--he’s had other violent incidents I assume?” He cocked an eye at Copley, already knowing the answer.

Copley inhaled deeply. “Yes, warden, Mr. Al-Kaysani has been involved in a few incidents--”

“So, most likely this priest, inmate diGenova, already showing a penchant for violence, gets injured in a fight with another inmate also known for violence. Big surprise. I’m not seeing what the big deal is here. Just give them both some time in the SHU to calm their tempers, and then move on.”

“Warden, it’s more complicated than that,” Copley said through gritted teeth. “This assault was....most likely sexually motivated. In which case, no, warden, it is not just another fight. And we have to address it, investigate it, and report it according to the PREA standards.” It took every bit of will power for Copley not to raise his voice to Merrick.

“Yes, yes, as I’ve already said, I’m aware of PREA but how do you know it was…” He waved his hands around, reluctant to say the words.

“A sexual assault?” Dr. Quynh cut in, drawing Copley and Merrick’s attention to her. “Because of the injuries to Mr. diGenova’s mouth and throat. Not to mention the fluids found in his mouth and hair.” Quynh narrowed her eyes at Merrick. She was a blunt woman, never shying away from the details that might make others hesitant. Copley appreciated that about her, among other qualities.

Merrick eyed Copley’s assistant taking notes warily. “But how--”

“How do I know they were the result of a sexual assault? Well, due to my medical training on the matter, I’m well aware of how to identify such injuries and separate them from a beating. Not to mention the presence of semen on Mr. diGenova. I think it’s fair to say men don’t often ejaculate semen on one another during a simple assault?” Quynh couldn’t stop herself from making a crude gesture with her hand, mimicking the act.

“Dr. Tran!” Merrick started, recoiling into his seat in dramatic fashion.

“If I may warden,” Copley hurriedly said, holding his hand out as if the two were about to lunge at one another, “I believe Dr. Tran is simply attempting to emphasize the importance of her findings.” He shot Quynh a look, pleading with his eyes for her to stand down. 

“Even still, I expect a bit more professionalism from a member of my staff.” Merrick narrowed his eyes at her, daring her to push him.

She set her jaw, and inhaled deeply through her nostrils. 

“Pardon my... _ outburst _ , warden,” Quynh said softly, doing her best to keep her cool. Her eyes darted to Copley, understanding his silent plea. “I just cannot ignore the physical evidence. I collected samples of the fluids to positively identify them, and catalog them in case they are needed for trial. In accordance with the procedure of  _ your _ prison, warden.”

“So, then, the inmate consented to a rape kit, then?” 

Quynh visibly balked, however slight, drawing a smile from Merrick. Copley winced internally, knowing that this was usually the issue Merrick used to slither out of taking such allegations further. Any allegations, substantiated or unsubstantiated, were bad for The Old Guard Prison’s record when it came to state funding, so no allegation recorded was the end result Merrick wanted.

Quynh swallowed hard, refusing to back down. “I did not perform a rape kit as Mr. diGenova declined it, however--”

“Ms. Tran, how did you collect fluids then if you weren’t performing a rape kit? Because you can’t have if the inmate declined. Otherwise,  _ we  _ would be in violation of state law. As I would hope you are aware.”

_ Ms. Tran….oh god, those are fighting words…  _ Copley watched them carefully, worried Quynh might get up and lunge at the small, irritating man. Copley wouldn’t stop her.

“It’s  _ doctor _ , and yes, I am well aware and would also never retraumatize a patient by doing that. I simply collected some to identify the fluid, to be thorough. I am holding off on disposing of it until Mr. diGenova has had some more time to process the incident as it can be quite common for a victim to initially refuse--”

“ _ Alleged _ victim. After all, how do we know this encounter wasn’t consensual? The sexual part of it at least. Although with criminals like these, you can be sure some of them enjoy the violence as well.” 

Quynch glowered at Merrick, her eyes simmering and her mouth slightly open in shock for how to proceed. Copley couldn’t blame her, and realized he might have to throttle the man himself.

“If  _ I  _ may,” came the soft, demure voice of Dr. Kozak, leaning forward in her chair to gather the room’s attention. “In order to aid Dr. Quynh, I conducted my own interview with inmate diGenova in order to see if I could help him assent to a forensic exam as Dr. Quynh was so adamant. It was my goal, above all else, to get to the truth and provide any help required to the alleged victim.”

Copley eyed Kozak warily, not for a moment falling for her supposed concern for Nicolò. He was well aware of her opinions on the matter, considering her earlier comments and written report on Nicolò in the file in hand.

“While the contents of my conversation with inmate diGenova are not to be disclosed, I can say with surety that it would be best to move forward with the patient’s wishes. Attempting to force a rape kit on the man would be violating his rights and, dare I say, shaming him. We are all well aware the prisoners seek sexual release with one another from time to time, and while it is not permitted, punishing them for it seems rather tyrannical and puritanical, does it not?”

“Are you suggesting that a  _ priest _ consented to a sexual encounter in which he was restrained and beaten?” Quynh seethed at the woman, and Copley was sure that any moment there might be another violent incident in this very room.

Dr. Kozak smiled warmly at Quynh, dripping with condescension. “My dear, he is still a man after all. And a priest capable of murder is I’m sure also capable of many other acts not typically suited for a man of the cloth. Besides, he is still adamant about his refusal of a rape kit, and keeps asserting that he wasn’t even attacked. That may be false considering his injuries, and most likely due to his wanting to shield the identities of the men with whom he may have had a tryst. Or perhaps, embarrassment.” She turned her attention to focus solely on Merrick. “And while I believe unequivocally in the importance of the PREA laws, I also believe that to so doggedly pursue and harass an inmate to report a sexual abuse allegation like this is harmful for both his mental state and the financial security of the prison. If the state cuts our budget, who will suffer? Why, the inmates under our care first and foremost. As doctors, are we not tasked with doing no harm?”

“As doctors, we are also well aware of a patient’s initial refusal to accept that a sexual trauma occurred to them!” Quynh’s voice slightly raised at the end, and Copley marveled at how she managed to keep from shouting at the top of her lungs. Still, Kozak visibly flinched at her tone, no doubt an exaggeration.

“Dr. Tran, please lower your voice,” Merrick sighed, clearly losing his patience with this meeting. On that, Copley could relate, however for entirely different reasons. He had lost control of the narrative and he knew it.

“Of course, Dr. Tran, I am well aware.” Dr. Kozak looked at Dr. Quynh as she spoke, though her words were for Merrick’s benefit. “So if inmate diGenova is indeed a victim afraid to report, he is free to change his mind at any time and file a report. We will take the necessary steps to provide him care and support. But for now, I think it is doing more harm to his mental state to pursue this against his wishes. He is still adjusting to life here, which we know can be quite challenging, and it is my opinion the man is quite volatile considering the details of his crime and his actions within the first few days of his time here. Plenty of witnesses corroborate that he started the altercation in the dining hall, and C.O. Keane also wrote up a report about the inmate attacking him unprovoked while staying in the SHU.”

“How on earth can you think what happened to him was consensual? There were abrasions around his mouth indicating he had something physically forced in!” Quynh kept her fists balled in her lap to prevent gesturing wildly.

“And what would that be? C.O. Keane said there was nothing out of ordinary at the scene. Only his towel, unless that is what you think was used to make the marks? Though that seems unlikely.” Dr. Kozak turned her eyes to Merrick now, a small smile on her lips as if the mere suggestion was a joke for them to laugh at.

Quynh sighed, immensely exhausted. “I don’t know what. But a towel wouldn’t make those kinds of marks. So it had to be something else.” She shook her head, turning her head to look at Merrick. “It is still my medical opinion that a sexual assault occured. And I will list that in my notes.” She folded her arms across her chest, looking resolute. 

“As is your right, Dr. Tran,” Merrick said with a sympathetic incline of his head. “But considering the inmate’s refusal to agree to a rape kit, provide any evidence or even an allegation that he was assaulted in any way, and our inability to disprove the very plausible possibility that any sexual encounter that may have occurred was indeed consensual, I do believe there is no allegation here to be made.” He looked at Copley, a smug look already forming. “Do you disagree Copley?”

_ Fucking massively. _ But Copley bit his tongue.

“No, but the incident will still be documented due to the injuries of Mr. diGenova.”

“Of course, Copley. You are always very reliable in that department. However, I will need to see that report before it is filed. And you,” Merrick said, flicking his head at the assistant still taking notes, “Celeste, wasn’t it? I will also need to see the typed notes for this meeting before they are filed. Want to make sure everything is  _ properly _ documented.”

_ Wouldn’t want any of that pesky inflammatory language I bet... _

“Now, of course sexual encounters between inmates are not allowed for their health and safety and are a punishable offense, but I think considering the delicateness of the inmate’s... _ encounter _ , I will let the matter go and allow the inmate to return to genpop once Dr. Tran has released him from her care.”

“How kind,” Copley let slip, hoping it didn’t drip with the sarcasm he wanted to infuse into his words. Copley knew he had lost this fight. In the end, Warden Merrick made the final decision, and he was right in his assertion that there was not enough evidence or cooperation from Nicolò to file an allegation. And while it was not in the prison’s or Copley’s best interest to file such an allegation, Copley was a man of principle. And there was no doubt in his mind that Nicolò had been assaulted. But now it was just another incident to be swept under the rug for Merrick. He would do his best to guarantee that Copley’s report and his assistant’s notes on the meeting would reflect that.

“Of course, Copley. And again, you were right to call this meeting. We must always take these kinds of things very seriously and examine them with an eye for critical detail. I am very pleased to have such dedicated members of staff on hand. And now, I think this meeting has reached it conclusion, and I think you all for coming--”

“And Mr. Al-Kaysani?” Copley interrupted, hoping to score at least one point in his victory column.

“Who? Oh yes, him. What about him?” Merrick seemed irritated at being interrupted.

“Since we are coming to the determination that no assault occurred, certainly Mr. Al-Kaysani is also innocent of Keane’s allegation against the man.”

“Well--,” Merrick started before Quynh cut in this time.

“Mr. diGenova did outrightly insist that Mr. Al-Kaysani was not the one to assault him. That is on record by both myself and Dr. Kozak.” She peered over at the blond woman, whose annoyingly persistent little smile never wavered.

“Yes, that is true.”

Merrick sighed. “Well, he did charge C.O. Keane, but since I am feeling generous, and he’s already been in there a few days, let the man stew for a few more hours and then let him go with a warning.” He pushed himself away from his desk and stood up, adjusting the hoodie under his suit jacket. “Everyone satisfied? Good.”

Copley had to keep himself from laughing bitterly at his small victory for Yusuf. Quynh, he could tell, still fumed, and he knew he’d find her later in her office, pacing furiously and cursing the warden. Meanwhile, Dr. Kozak remained a perfect statue of poised satisfaction, that smile directed at Merrick who would certainly remember her name in future meetings. Another ally on his side to keep troublesome issues at bay.

Merrick cleared his throat. “Let’s all remember, Dr. Tran, Dr. Kozak, Copley, and...you,” he said, waving his hand towards Celeste, “that despite the men housed here being violent, dangerous members of society, we must always do our best to treat them with dignity. Make sure to quote me on that in your notes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joe and Nicky are coming up next! I promise! Though gonna be a little more drama while they work their way back to each other...she said ominously. Thank you again so much for your comments! Author lives off them while she hides in her cave.


	11. Cruel and Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally we return back to Joe and Nicky and find out where they've been for the past three days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Minor depiction of sexual assault (the end of the end scene of chapter 9), violence, and mentions of sexual assault. Also questionable psychiatric practice. 
> 
> Sorry this was delayed. I had meant for it sooner, but a personal family tragedy struck. But using this an excuse to take breaks from it so I finally got this chapter done. It's an experiment in shifting narratives and intruding memories. Hopefully it makes senses and works.

When Joe reluctantly opened his eyes, he found that his nightmare was real. He was still trapped inside the bland, gray concrete walls of the SHU, left to wonder how many days had passed, his head still a bit foggy from the sickening blows he had taken to the head. Considering how out of it he had been, he considered himself lucky for not slipping into a coma. Especially with no one coming to check on him other than to wordlessly slide in a tray of food from time to time and the one day he was finally given a change of clothes. And in his solitude, one question continued to torment him between bouts of fitful sleep.

_ Where is Nicky?  _

Logically, he knew Nicky should be in the infirmary. But it still didn’t lessen Joe’s need to know without a doubt where so that somehow he might be able to find his way to him. He just had to see him. Talk to him. Touch him. Reassure both Nicky and himself that he was going to make everything better.

Groaning, Joe sat up from the hard slab he had slept rough on and banged his head back against the rough wall behind him, making his headache worse. He closed his eyes, wondering if he did it harder, maybe it might knock him out so that he might sleep the rest of his time away.

_ What good would that do? _ Joe mused.  _ Knock me back into that damn nightmare _ .

It replayed everytime. 

Joe had lost himself for a while in  _ Don Quixote _ after picking himself off the floor from Nicky’s blow. He ignored the mess of ruined paper and the crumpled photograph in their shared sink, trying not to dwell on his actions though he knew he would regret it in the morning. He simply wanted to disappear into his book and drift off to sleep, hoping to escape facing Nicky when he came back from the showers.

_ You haven’t even known him that long _ , Joe grumbled to himself.  _ Why can’t you just be neutral about the guy? What is it? His eyes? His lips? The way he gave enough of a shit about you to clean the rug that  _ you _ stained but blamed  _ him _ for? Because of how good it felt to be so close to him, to have your hands in his hair, and his breath against your face? And that he felt it too?  _ He remembered the look in Nicky’s eyes right before he had called him that hateful word, that accusation he didn’t really believe but threw out just to hurt him. There had been longing there calling out to him. And he had wanted to answer.

_ FUCK! I don’t care about him. It’s lust, nothing else... _

But when the night shift announced fifteen minutes to lights out, Joe’s attention perked up with the sudden realization that Nicky had not returned from the showers. It had been too long. Guard patrols in the shower area this late were usually around thirty minutes, which meant that thirty minutes was the maximum time possible for getting away with anything in the showers.

_ Like getting in a fuck or jumping a guy… _

Joe shot up from his bed,  _ Don Quixote  _ falling from his hands as his mind made quick work of figuring out all the possibilities of why Nicky might be in the showers for so long. 

Joe doubted very much Nicky had gone down there for a quick fuck. 

If Joe thought about it any longer, he might have reasoned to himself,  _ What business is it of yours? Didn’t you give the okay to an “accident” to befall him? What did you expect? _ But he didn’t, all thoughts leaving his mind for only instinct to take over, leaping down from his bunk and running as fast as he could towards the showers with panic rising in his throat. A few inmates looked at him curiously as he rushed down the corridor, his feet slamming hard into the floor as he went, putting the full force of his body into his sprint. One man walked out of his cell right into Joe’s path, and Joe, unable to stop, knocked him aside lest he slow him down. Somewhere behind him, shouts issued out, most likely directed at him since running was not allowed inside, but Joe ignored them all.

Finally he had made it to the showers, stopping only for a moment to take in the taped up sign reading, “closed for maintenance,” and the contraindicating haze of steam rising from just beyond. He felt bile rise in his throat, his heart beating loudly in his ears.

Without another thought, he ripped through the tape, rushing down the hall, ignoring the dampness growing in his socks -- he had been about to sleep after all and hadn’t thought to put on shoes. His heart hammering in his chest as he rounded the corner, bursting into the showers to witness a group of men through the haze holding a keening, writhing figure.

“NICKY!” Joe shouted. He couldn’t make out who was who, but knew that the whimpering figure being held down and spread open by the others was indeed Nicky. One of the men Joe recognized as a member of the Aryan Brotherhood by the swastika on his right pectoral hastily pulled his cock from Nicky’s open mouth, scowling at Joe’s sudden appearance. Spit and cum trailed from the cock head, stringing across Nicky’s lips as he gasped for air.

“You pieces of shit!” Joe cursed as he lunged forward, seeing red, and desiring only to get his fists on every single one of them.

Three of the men peeled off, startled by Joe’s appearance, before coming straight for him with no chance to conceal their nudity and semi-hard cocks. Joe knew exactly what they had been doing, as the two remaining figures continued to hold Nicky down, forcing incomprehensible cries from him as they continued their assault. 

There was blood on him, forming a thin line from his wrists down to the crevice of his spread ass. The sight of it incensed Joe.

He put his fists up and blocked the blow from the first man, countering with a one-two punch that sent the man to the floor with a hard wet  _ thud _ . Another ducked his next blow, crouching down to grab at his midsection in an attempt to throw him down. Joe spread his feet and bent his knees, holding his stance firm. Joe shoved an elbow into his assailant’s back over and over until his grip loosened, the man grunting in pain and frustration, allowing Joe to toss him aside as he engaged the third.

With two down, the other two men abandoned Nicky, shoving him carelessly into the wet tiles where he landed with a sharp gasp. The soap bar shoved halfway into his resisting body fell out, a thin trickle of blood mixing with the green bar, swirling towards the drain in the center of the floor. Nicky curled up into himself, his arms still painfully pulled behind his back and his mouth held open wide by the gag. Joe didn’t have time to fully assess him as the two swarmed him, the other two recovering, and the fifth landing a harsh blow to his ribs.

“This doesn’t concern you!” one shouted at him. All Joe could recollect of that moment was rage and regret; his only instinct was to clear a path to Nicky. 

Joe growled after receiving a punch to the face. His adrenaline worked to brush it off though he could feel the impact and blood on his lip. He headbutted one man, before putting another in a headlock. He made use of their nakedness, hitting them in their exposed, soft flesh. 

“I will fuckin’ kill you, y’ motherfuckers!” Joe raged. He just managed to kick one thick muscled man in the stomach before laying eyes on Beto, his heart crying out for vengeance. Joe couldn’t wait to press his knuckles into that odious face, flattening and cracking every bone there. But just as he was about to deliver a decisive hit to the rat-faced man, a sharp blow struck him in the kidneys before another followed in quick succession on his head, the sound of the _ crack  _ of the object hitting his skull audible, knocking him down and sending his head spinning.

He fell forward onto his knees as he clutched his head, giving the others an opportunity to deliver quick and ruthless kicks, striking him in the ribs, stomach, and chin. He felt his vision go white as he fell into the wet puddles of the shower floor. 

Somewhere above him, a voice barked orders as a boot pressed heavily into his back, pinning him to the ground, the blows ceasing. He fought through his confused haze to fight, but another sharp whack to his head stunned him. When he regained his senses, he found his arms cuffed behind his back.

“Fuck! Quick! Get that thing off of him!” he heard one voice say in a panic.

“Fuckin’ Kaysani, I’m gonna kill--”

“We don’t have time for that! LET’S GO!” 

“Get the cuffs you dumb shit! And the pants. All of it!”

Nicky whimpered as the men tossed and fumbled with his body. While Joe thrashed against the foot between his shoulders blades, pressing his face into the wet floor, he could taste blood in the water on his tongue as he cursed the men in vain. He could hear footsteps splash about retreating. And as the voices receded, Joe’s animal noises and Nicky’s labored breathing were all that was left.

_ I need to get to him _ , Joe thought, struggling against the foot that held him down.  _ I need to know if he’s okay… _

When the foot finally released him, it delivered a hard and deliberate blow to his side, knocking the wind out of him before disappearing, leaving Joe wheezing. But at least he was alone with Nicky, who was now worryingly quiet and still. 

Gulping in air in an attempt to settle his breath, Joe pushed up onto his knees and crawled towards Nicky. His shirt and pants were weighted with water, dragging against his skin as he moved, but he ignored it, feeling only the frustration of the bindings on his wrists preventing him from getting to Nicky faster. 

When he reached him, Nicky was curled up into a ball, his back to Joe. Joe worried he might be dead, if it were not for the slight trembling racking Nicky’s body. The room felt humid and unberable, the air thick with steam and remnants of sex, yet Nicky shivered as if he were freezing. Joe wished he could reach out and lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, to let him know it was over, and he was safe now. But all he could do was weakly crawl up behind him and nudge Nicky with his face.

“Nicky, wake up! Nicky! Answer me. Please, are you…” Joe’s voice had caught in his throat, unsure how to proceed. “Look at me! Please...please Nicky.” Joe didn’t know why, but he had to see his face. He had to make sure that Nicky was still with him.

Nicky groaned, turning over onto his hands and knees, still balled up and holding himself like he might be able to hide and protect himself from any other harm others might mean him. Joe could see all the bruises and marks on his skin, the red welts, hand prints, and lines of broken capillaries that marked where he had been bound. With effort, he turned his head to Joe, showing him his battered face and swollen, cracked lips, deep red marks in the corners of his mouth, and his hallowed eyes that seemed to have dimmed to grey. Joe felt a pang of guilt when the thought came to him unbidden how Nicky still looked beautiful, even so ruined. The pain reflected back in his eyes made Joe want to cry, and he hated how his desire to hold the man coursed through him. He would break his own wrists to be free of the cuffs on him if it would allow him for even just a moment to bundle him into his arms.

“Nicky, listen--”

Joe’s head shot up when he heard voices behind him, outside the showers and in the hallway, and Joe realized he didn’t have much time before the guards showed up. And he had to tell Nicky something very important. Something vile and awful, something that made his stomach twist and his chest seize as he stared into Nicky’s waiting eyes that seemed to beg for someone to trust. 

_ I’m sorry Nicky. _

The heavy sound of the scraping metal of the cell door opening drew Joe from his waking nightmare, and he realized once more that he was back in the SHU, and that the nightmare was simply a memory replaying over and over to torment him. He had to find Nicky. He had to talk to Nicky. He had to explain the vile thing he had told him in that moment when Nicky was at his most vulnerable state.

Joe peered up lazily, figuring it might be some pissed-off officer looking to work out their frustrations on Joe --God knows C.O. Keane did it to all the inmates, and seemed to especially appreciate Joe’s ability to take a beating. But Joe grinned despite himself at the sight of the blond man, surprised at just how pleased he was to see Booker.

“Oh, hey Book, what’s up?” Joe chuckled to himself, wincing at the pain still throbbing in his side. He’d tried his best to assess his injuries when he was first dumped in here, admiring the dark edge of the bluish-purple bruise forming on his side. He looked forward to finding a mirror and admiring the full canvas.

Booker sauntered over, crouching down to bring himself to eye level as Joe sat leaning against the wall, his long, lean legs sprawled out in front of him. Joe examined the man’s face, wondering how many drinks he’d had already, and was surprised to see that Booker seemed fully alert and sober. 

“Eh, not much. Just thought I’d come by and give you the good news.” Booker gave a small smile, tinged with an emotion Joe couldn’t quite place. Pity? Regret? 

“Lemme guess,” Joe said with a toothy grin, “Dodgers won the world series.”

Booker laughed, dispelling the hidden emotion in his smile. “The fuck do I care about baseball? This country and their  _ baseball _ .  _ Mon dieu. _ Sometimes I wonder why I even became a citizen.”

“Careful Book. Don’t be disrespectful to the boys in blue here. Half the gangs in here will shank you just for that. Dodger blue, baby.”

“Right.” He shook his head at Joe, rolling his eyes, but his smile was fond. “Well, hopefully you’ll take to this news instead: you’ve been cleared. You’re free to return to genpop. Or maybe the infirmary? You look like maybe you could use a little TLC from the doc.”

The offer was tempting, especially if Nicky was there. But if Nicky wasn’t, then it would mean that Nicky was already back in genpop. Alone. No, he couldn’t waste time in the infirmary.

“Nah, me? I’m golden.” Joe worked to stand up, struggling more than he cared to in front of Booker, hissing at the soreness that seemed to be coming from his side and his head. “I’m sure Dr. Quynh is tired of seeing my face. You should go see her, though, Book. Maybe get you some TLC.” He winked at Booker, doing his best to maintain his laidback bravado despite his whole body vibrating to get out of there. And find Nicky.

“From Dr. Quynh? No way.” Booker placed metal cuffs on Joe’s outstretched wrists -- they both knew the drill although Booker knew Joe wasn’t a danger to him. Once done, Booker placed his hand on Joe’s arm, leading him out like he was a dangerous inmate who needed a firm hand, but Joe knew it was pretense for Booker to offer Joe a little support. “She plays for the other team. If you know what I mean. Also, she scares the hell out of me.”

Joe laughed at that, enjoying the relief in his cramped muscles as they walked, happy for the activity after being stuck in that hellhole of a cramped room for...how many days had it been?

“What day is it?” Joe asked. “Damn hole, can’t even tell how time works in there.”

“It’s Thursday,” Booker replied before clearing his throat, keeping his eyes ahead and avoiding Joe’s gaze. “It’s been three days. If that’s what you were asking.”

“And Nicky?” Joe had many questions, but knew he’d only have so much time with Booker before they returned to genpop. They wouldn’t be able to speak out in the open like that, eyes and ears everywhere. 

“Should be in the infirmary still. For another day or two.” His eyes flicked to Joe, unable to stop himself. “He’s doing fine. He’ll be… he’ll be okay.”

_ Thank you, God _ . His hands itched to hold his Baba’s Quran right then, as he often did as a child when Yasmin and he spent their first spring without him.

“Did he say anything about what happened?” It was Joe’s turn to look away, keeping his cards close to his chest, and refusing to let anything slip, even if it was to Booker. At the end of the day, Booker was still an officer here. Not an inmate. And not a friend.

“Can’t discuss that with you, Joe,” Booker sighed. “You know that.” 

“I guess I just want the  _ chisme _ ,” Joe joked, but from time to time, Booker did feel like a friend. More importantly, Joe needed to know what Nicky had told them, the C.O.’s and the doctors. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew, until he could see Nicky, and put a hand on him like he had wanted to in the showers.

“Sure, you’re a real gossip, Joe.” Booker sounded almost sad, shaking his head to himself, before asking, “You know, if there’s anything else you wanna tell us--tell  _ me _ \--about that day...it might really help.” He stopped right in front of the locked gate leading out to the fishbowl, bringing the both of them to a stop, moving to stand in front of Joe and look him square into his eyes. “C’mon Joe, help the kid out. I know you want to.”

Joe gazed at Booker, his eyes dark like obsidian as he set his jaw and chose his words carefully.

“Already told you everything, Book. Didn’t see anything. Just found Nicky like that. And then Keane came out of nowhere and beat my ass for no reason.”

Booker sighed. “You’re really gonna stick to that bullshit?”

Joe shrugged. “It’s what happened.”

“Then why did you run to the showers?”

“Because it was almost lights out. And I noticed Nicky was gone for a while. Copley told me to help show him around and guide him. So that’s what I was doing. Don’t need my cell getting tossed just because the guy can’t be bothered to be on time for lights out.”

“Right.” Joe knew Booker wasn’t buying his rehearsed excuse. “And you didn’t see who did...that to him?”

_ Five men. Beto, Cardenas, Herrera, Muller, and Barnett.  _ In the days he spent in the SHU, Joe had replayed the scene over and over to pick out each face, committing them to memory.

“Nope.” 

“Joe, dammit.” Booker huffed, placing his hands on his hips as he regarded Joe and his stonewalled expression. “I know you Joe, and I know you were there trying to help the guy. So, help him again. Tell us what happened or who was responsible, I’ll work to make sure nothing comes back on you or the kid. I’ll protect you. Copley will protect you.”

_ That’s not how things work here… _ Joe wanted to scream at the man before him, rant and rave about how fruitless it was here to tell the truth and do the right thing. There was only the smart thing. The thing that kept you alive. And the truth had no part in that.

Joe gave Booker a sad, wistful little smile. “Oh, like you all helped that kid from San Marino two years ago? How’d that work out for him?” Booker set his jaw, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. Joe knew he had drawn first blood, but he needed to go for the kill. Biting the side of his tongue, Joe knew he would have to strike deeper to save Booker from himself. “Or how ‘bout your own dead kid, huh, Book? You really did a good job protecting him.”

Booker’s eyes widened, swirling with shock then a deep, intense anger. Joe wondered if this might be the thing that finally forced Booker to give Joe a solid beating. Probably throw him back in the SHU to rot for weeks. And Joe would deserve it. Using the one thing he knew about Booker that would hurt him the most. It would delay him finding Nicky, but he needed Booker to stop asking questions. 

In his time alone with his thoughts, Joe had thought about the foot that had pressed into his back, pinning him down and keeping him from getting to Nicky. Though in the moment it had all been a haze of adrenaline and anger, he recognized the voice above him that shouted orders to Nicky’s assailants.

_ Stop poking around, Book. For all our sakes. _

Booker took in several deep breaths, his hand gripping tight the baton at his belt while Joe waited patiently for the blond man to make a decision. But Joe refused to back down, to apologize despite the regret sitting deep in his belly for mentioning Booker’s dead son, because Joe knew the one rule everyone here must obey above all else.

_ Do. Not. Snitch. _

“You know what Joe,” Booker breathed out heavily, his voice shaking with the rage he burned with. “Go fuck yourself.” 

The blow never came. Booker simply undid his cuffs before turning away, signaling the security camera to buzz open the gate leading towards the fishbowl, and shoved Joe through unceremoniously before slamming the gated door behind him.

  
  


When Nicky woke up that morning, he found he felt little pain at all. Maybe it was the painkillers he had been given or his “ _ resilience _ ” Dr. Quynh had repeatedly complimented him on, but Nicky knew that in reality he was just numb. There had been so much pain, physically and beyond, that he wondered if he might not ever know a time without it again. But here he was, feeling practically nothing at all.

Of course, sitting up in the infirmary bed he had been laid up in for the past couple of days was the impetus for his body to remind him of all his bruises, cuts, and sore spots. His muscles seized and almost forced him back down into the bed, resisting Nicky’s attempts to move, but Nicky grit his teeth and fought through it. He was tired of lying in this bed, tired of all the questioning, tired of all the checkups, tired of simply being. 

His time here was hazy in his memories. He was barely aware of himself and how he even got here from...Nicky tried not to remember that part. When he finally came back to himself, it was night already. He found himself bandaged and bundled up in the bed, an IV line in his hand, humane restraints on his wrists and ankles, and the groggy, floating feeling of painkillers soothing him. It was almost pleasant. This part of the infirmary had a window framing a dark indigo sky beyond, spotted here and there with a few points of lights. Even with the cold grey bars criss crossing in front, it was still a sight that was now a rarity for Nicky.

For a time, he had focused on that sight, drifting in and out of sleep. He knew he needed the sleep, but little by little, the memories came back to haunt him there. Nicky wasn’t ready yet to remember it, so he fought against sleep until at last he was so bone tired that he passed out without a single thought in his mind. It allowed him the opportunity to pay little attention when Dr. Quynh came to check on him, her kind touches he had longed for before now a pestering nuisance. She wanted answers, to take blood for tests of possible disease contraction, to give him drugs just in case the results were positive, and, most annoyingly, pleaded with him to do more exams. Intimate ones. Intrusive ones. 

Dr. Quynh wanted answers to questions on things he desperately wished to forget. Didn’t she understand he just wanted quiet? He simply wanted to sleep all day and wake at night when all was quiet again. Then he could be alone with the night sky, the sight of which he began to associate with that dreamy, warm feeling of the drugs.

The color of the sky made him think of his mother, of their nights spent staring at the stars in their little apartment back in Genoa, as she whispered all the dreams and hopes she had for him.  _ “My little Nicky _ ,” she would hum.  _ “Someday you will see the sky from so many different parts of the world. You will do many great things.”  _

He felt his eyes begin to burn as the tears came unbidden, knowing that he would never see that sky again without bars. 

He pulled the rough, pale blue hospital blanket off his legs, hissing at the cold sting of the morning air. The hospital gown did little to protect his legs and feet from the chilly air, but he was tired of being trapped in that bed. Thankfully, his restraints had been removed by now. He shifted, feeling a soreness in his backside, remembering how Dr. Quynh had asked if his assailants had...No, he didn’t want to remember the question. She had asked when he first arrived, tried to reach down to examine him, and he had fought. And then reawoken tied down. But it didn’t matter anyway, the pain was slight and would soon be gone. 

Nicky wanted to walk, to move, and more importantly, to get out. He needed...well, he didn’t know quite what he needed. Nicky just knew he wanted to be gone from here. And maybe...to find Joe.

_ He’ll know...what I should do next...won’t he? _

He swallowed hard, wincing at the sore, swollen feeling of his throat. He coughed, shaking at the pain that ripped through him when he did, feeling like there was a clot of something still stuck there that he could neither spit out nor swallow down. A hand shot up to touch his throat gingerly, like he might be able to feel what was trapped. But there was nothing there, not anymore, but the feeling remained like a phantom.

The memory came back violently then, his breath catching as he was back in the steamy room, hands on him everywhere, holding him open, and forcing intrusion after intrusion in him that he had been powerless to stop. He could smell them. He could taste them. He closed his eyes, his head swimming, and Nicky blindly sought the little metal bowl Dr. Quynh had left for him by his bed and threw up. There wasn’t much to come up, having already expelled all he could when he first arrived here, but still it felt good to purge his stomach again, despite it being nothing more than clear liquid.

Nicky wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, finding that a tremor in his hands remained. Staring down at his hand, he could see the red lines around his wrists, the thin cuts scabbed over but still there to taunt him.

_ “Hola princesa.”  _ Nicky threw the bowl away from him, sending it clattering to the floor, as the voice in his head startled him. His breathing came hard and fast, the blood pressure monitor he was hooked up pinging wildly, making his dizziness worse.

_ Stop, please, stop! _

The pinging ceased suddenly, and Nicky marveled at how fast his wish had been granted. Looking up, he discovered his wish granter was Dr. Quynh, pressing a button on the machine Nicky was hooked up to, before turning a warm smile on Nicky. He wanted to smile back and accept her kindness, but he avoided meeting her gaze, knowing he couldn’t open up to her like she wanted. Like Copley had wanted. Like how that blond doctor had wanted, her cold, venomous smile on him.

“Good morning, Nicolò,” Dr. Quynh said as she came over to stand in front of him, hands hanging on the stethoscope she had looped over her neck. “How are you feeling today?”

Nicky tried to hide his irritation at this question.  _ Everyday, someone asks him. Stop asking me, just let me be. Let me find Joe… _

“I want a shower,” Nicky replied back with his voice barely above a whisper, having no desire to put any unwarranted strain on it. The louder he was, the more his throat hurt. Dr. Quynh said his throat should be fine now, no reason to whisper when he talked, but he couldn’t bring himself to put any undue stress on it. Vibrating his vocal cords made him want to retch, even if there was nothing to expel.

“Nicolò…” Nicky winced like she had slapped him. In a way, she did with the tone in her voice. There was a pity that he couldn’t stand.

“I want one,” he repeated more resolutely. It felt ironic to be demanding one, considering the setting of his assault, but he needed to scrub the feeling of  _ it _ off his skin. He needed to be clean, even if it was just on the outside.

“Nicolò,” she began, her pitying tone gone, replaced by one of stern determination. She waited for him to peer up at her, refusing to go on lest he meet her eyes. This was the silent war they had been locked in the past couple of days, and Nicky admired her as a patient opponent. “I know you do. And I can’t stop you--”

“You said it had to be done within forty-eight hours. It’s passed that now. So what does it matter?” Nicky countered back.

Dr. Quynh sighed. “It still matters, there’s still a chance to collect evidence. So, please, I implore you one more time, that before you do, please tell me what happened to you. What really happened.” Her hands were clasped in front of her now, almost like she was praying to him. The sight of it brought him all the way back to his days offering communion and confession, back when he still had a chance for a life of doing those great things his mother had envisioned for him. 

But instead he was here, in this prison with its bitter walls and caged windows, with Dr. Quynh asking him once more to tell him how he had been....No, he wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t. Even thinking about it brought him back there... 

Something had interrupted them, because the hands had let him go quite suddenly, first when he thought he might at last asphyxiate on the last intruder in his mouth and then the rest when he almost passed out from the pain of the soap being forced into him. As he struggled to regain his breath, Nicky could hear a commotion in the shower room, the sound of clashing bodies and shouted curses. He couldn’t see, something sticky crusted in his eyelashes, but there was a flurry of movement all around him. When the hands came back, Nicky panicked, worried it was starting all over again, but instead the hands roughly released him from his bindings and took the cold, cruel object out of his mouth, hitting his teeth along the way, sending a hard shock through his jaw, fearing it had cracked one of his teeth. He was thankful to the hands then for allowing him to wrap his arms around his limbs and curl in on himself and at last close his mouth, worried his exhausted jaw was going to somehow be ripped open permanently.

And then it was quiet, save for the sound of a grunting man that came closer and closer. He gripped himself tighter, afraid the man would demand more of him, when he just simply wanted to rest. His name was called out, a plea, and at last he felt the press of a face nudging him. Refusing to stop, the man carried on, forcing Nicky to fight against his weary limbs to lift himself up just enough to discover Joe kneeling in front of him, his clothes wet and clinging to his body, his hands bound, and his face full of a terror and worry Nicky had not managed to see yet on Joe.

_ Are you still mad at me? _ Nicky had wondered.

Joe started to talk, but Nicky could barely understand him at first, only marveling at the concern in the eyes trained on him. There was worry in every line of his face, and his eyes almost seemed to glisten while on the verge of tears. Nicky marveled at how bright Joe’s brown eyes beamed. Nicky couldn’t understand why he looked at him like this, considering how disgusted he had been with Nicky, and rightly so. In fact, Nicky wondered at how Joe was there at all. A feeling of dread twisted his insides as he realized Joe might have seen what the other men had done to him. He wanted to hide his face away from Joe, knowing how even more disgusted he must now. But his eyes were soft and pleading, so dark they were almost black, yet shining with a light inside. 

“..don’t say anything. Nicky? Do you understand?” Like the sound had just been turned back on, Nicky focused to catch all of Joe’s words. His voice was a little scratchy, and it was a very pleasant sound to Nicky, but he knew he had to listen to the words. “You can’t say anything to anyone. Okay? This is important. Tell no one what happened, and above all, don’t say who. You got that? Nicky, please let me know you understand!”

“I…” Nicky tried to find his voice, but discovered how it hurt to talk. How sore his jaw and lips were. The corners of his lips stung, like maybe the skin there was ripped open. A bitter taste clung to his tongue.

Joe peered behind his shoulder in a panic, before turning back to bring his face closer to Nicky’s. “No matter what, you don’t say a thing. Say you were jumped, that’s it, and that you don’t know who. Please, trust me. Please, Nicky, let me know you understand!”

Nicky nodded dumbly, unable to speak. But he had understood, and though he couldn’t vocalize it to Joe, he vowed to do just as Joe said. Joe always knew what to do. Even if he might despise Nicky, Nicky trusted Joe. He couldn’t say why, only that it felt natural and right. Maybe it was that he longed for Joe’s touch. This sinful and strong strong desire was probably why this had happened to Nicky in the first place.

Dr. Kozak had said as much. 

But the woman in front of him now was Dr. Quynh, who seemed so willing to help him. Again asking him to open up to her and give her permission to poke and prod at Nicky, to scrape away at him to find traces of  _ them _ on him and in him. 

_ “Why?” he had asked. _

_ “To gather evidence,” she replied gently like she might spook him. _

“ _ Evidence for what?” _

_ “For conviction. For a trial,” she had answered honestly. _

_ “No,” had been Nicky’s answer, knowing he had to follow Joe’s instruction. _

That had been his answer since coming here, and now again Dr. Quynh pleaded with him to go against Joe’s instruction and tell her what had happened. To make concrete his pain and let her collect the proof before he washed it away. Didn’t she understand that he needed to get rid of it, cleanse himself, and move on like it never happened? 

_ Why won’t she let me erase it? _

“I already told you,” he said firmly, holding his throat to stop the overwhelming feeling of his voice vibrating. He had no desire to begin dry heaving in front of Dr. Quynh and draw another pitying look from her kind eyes. “I was beat up. That’s it. I didn’t see who did it. I only know it was not Joe.” He sighed, closing his eyes to shut out the sad look of her face. He would have preferred her to be angry; her disappointment was worse. 

“Nicolò, you’ve had only a sponge bath since being here, so some evidence is already gone. But if you shower yourself now, there will be nothing left to collect. If you change your mind later, it will make it harder to investigate and punish the person or persons who did this. Please, you can trust me. And Copley. We will protect you. Make sure no one else can hurt you.”

Copley had promised the same things when he had come to see Nicky next morning after it had happened. He seemed a kind man, by the concern in his voice and the wrinkles in his forehead as he looked at Nicky with the same pity Quynh offered. He, like Quynh, wanted to help; said he would be protected no matter what.

_ No _ , he thought bitterly.  _ How can you? How can you stop... _ Keane’s face flashed in his mind now, the satisfied curve of his slight grin when he came back in with other C.O.’s to drag Joe away and begin picking Nicky up to take to the infirmary. He had enjoyed his show, and now he got to play the hero of the very assault he had orchestrated. 

Dr. Quynh and Copley could promise all they wanted; Nicky knew they were sincere in their belief that they could deliver on that promise. But what could they do if he told them that one of their own was part of it? Would they believe him? How could they? He was a murderer. A criminal. What was his word worth? 

Nicky almost felt a ray of hope when he met with Dr. Kozak, the psychiatrist. She met with him in private, promising their talks were confidential. 

_ “I’m like a priest almost, and this a confessional,” she had promised. “Anything you say here is protected. No matter what.” _

He had thought maybe, maybe it would be safe with her. But as he tried to talk, tried to tell her, she had suddenly interrupted him with the question that struck him to his very core and silenced him.

_“Nicolò,_ _are you a homosexual?”_

He snapped his mouth closed so hard, his teeth ached from the impact. He felt his hands shake, and he worried the look on his face would give her all the answer she needed. 

_ “Then perhaps you are afraid to speak about it because you feel shame? The same shame that led you to the priesthood? That you desired to be with these men, and you are afraid to name them because they saw the real you? The one that you’ve tried so long to hide and suppress. Certainly things got out of hand by the state of your injuries, but is it not correct that you won’t speak about it because the encounter was, in fact, consensual?” _

He wanted to tell her no. Scream it. He hadn’t wanted... _ that _ . But Dr. Kozak had seen through him, seen the secret he spent so long hiding and trying to atone for. Ever since that day his mother had caught him with his best friend Luca in his bed when he was fifteen. The look of horror and grief on her face, oh, how she had wept for him.

Dr. Kozak had smiled softly, like a comforting parent. 

_ “I’ve heard the rumors about you Nicolò. And I can see they are untrue. You are not a pedophile. You are simply a homosexual. But you must be careful here with that. It invites scrupulous and indecent behavior from the men in here who have no access to women. No outlet. Tread carefully. But your secret is safe with me. I will work to get Copley and Dr. Quynh to stop their pestering. Poor dear, the shame you must feel.” _

Shame. Disgust. Abhorrence for his base desires. Yes, she had seen right through him. And surely, if he secretly desired men, then perhaps he had invited it after all?

“There is nothing to protect me from,” Nicky mumbled, daring now to glare Dr. Quynh in the eyes. “I am tired of being here. I want to shower. I want to go back to my cell.”

_ I want to find Joe. _

Dr. Quynh sighed, dropping her head. Nicky wondered if she might cry. 

“Maybe take another day to--,”

“NO!” Nicky shouted, fighting the shudder from the pain that reverberated from his throat, and slamming his hand down on the hospital tray next to him, sending the tray and cup of ice chips on it jumping. Dr. Quynh jumped back, startled, and for a moment stared at Nicky with wide eyes full of the same fear that the members of the church on Christmas Eve had. He stood up on shaking legs and loomed over her, reminding her that he was a murderer. He was tired of her kindness and her care. 

_ Just beat me and hurt me. I’m sick of these soft touches. _

“Hey, inmate, step back,” shouted a C.O. who had come in from the other room at the sound of the commotion. His hand was on his baton, and Nicky almost laughed at the sight. He was already in the infirmary, so it was the perfect place to have his skull cracked open again. 

“It’s fine, Jacobs,” Dr. Quynh said as she stepped between Nicky and the guard. She waved him away, assuring him repeatedly that she was fine and could handle herself. With how loose his knees felt, ready to buckle at any moment, Nicky knew she spoke the truth. Quickly, his rage that had spurned him up was fading, but he refused to fall in front of them. 

Walking back to him, Dr. Quynh’s face showed that she was also aware how close Nicky was to falling over. Her brow furrowed, and Nicky could tell she was sad but resigned.

“Okay, Nicolò,” she sighed. “I’ll take you to the shower.” She reached out to take out his IV and hold onto his arm to guide and support him. He tried to push her off, but she held firm, shooting him a hard look that told him this was the one matter she would not concede. 

He sighed, letting himself be led, deciding he had already won his victory so he would allow her this small one.

Once inside, Nicky felt himself relax just a little, happy for the purifying feel of the hot water scalding his skin and the privacy this single walk in shower in the infirmary afforded him. For a while, he simply stood there, almost falling asleep where he stood as the water burned away the feeling of the hands and fluids and antiseptics on his skin. The little cuts and scrapes stung, but it was minor in comparison to the sweet relief of his muscles untensing. 

But as his mind drifted, the steam summoned back the memories and the hands were on him again. He felt small, trapped, and powerless. He could barely breathe. He cried then. Under the stream of the water, his tears could disappear like he wanted the memories to. Here maybe Nicky could scrape away all his skin, down to the bone, so that maybe he might simply feel numb again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE IS SAD. All right, working on getting Nicky and Joe reunited next, but still more angst awaits. Author is cruel. Author eats the comments so fed her please.
> 
> Also as a side note, every time I upload, AO3 adds extra spaces next to things in italics. I try to go back and catch them, but I miss some. Anyone else have this problem?


End file.
